THE  ROAD 


BY 

ELIAS 

AUTHOR  OF  "  WITTE  ARRIVES 


NEW   YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE  AND   COMPANY,    INC. 


RAHWAY.     N      J. 


TO  PAUL 

ON  HIS  EIGHTH  BIRTHDAY 


709968 


"Give  me  again,  O  Nature,  your  primal  sanities !"— WALT 
WHITMAN. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
Road's  Beginning 

HAPTER  PAGE 

I    HILDA 3 

II    RAYMOND 20 

III  THE   LONG    AGO 29 

IV  QUESTIONS 43 

V    HILDA  BECOMES  A  STRANGER     ....  54 

VI    RAYMOND  MAKES  A  PILGRIMAGE   ...  69 

BOOK  II 
Crossroads 

VII    THE  DAILY  BREAD 87 

VIII     SHADOWS 99 

IX    LITTLE  RAYMOND'S  BIRTHDAY    ....  109 

X    WORK 121 

XI    NEW   PEOPLE 140 

XII    THE  NEW  FAITH 156 

XIII  FRANK  HILLSTROM 171 

XIV  FIRE  AND  DEATH 184 

BOOK  III 


XV 

XVI 

XVII 

XVIII 

XIX 

XX 

XXI 

XXII 

XXIII 


Road's  End 

THE  TURN  195 

THE  UNCHARTED  ROAD   .  209 

FEARS  AND  HOPES   .     .  225 

BEFORE   THE    STORM  235 

RAYMOND  EVERT  COMES 246 

GRAY  HAIR— GRAY  EYES 263 

HILDA  CONTINUES  ALONE 277 

DEATH 290 

A  TOAST  TO  THE  FUTURE 297 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  IV 

Epilogue 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

XXIV    IN  RUSSIA'S  FIELDS 30? 


BOOK  I 
ROAD'S  BEGINNING 


CHAPTER   I 
HILDA 

WHEN  Hilda  Thorsen  opened  her  eyes  she  was  still  lying 
on  the  operating  table.  The  room  seemed  to  be  filled  with 
vapor  and  she  could  distinguish  neither  the  doctor  nor  the 
nurses.  She  heard  them  speak,  but  their  voices  had  a  far 
away,  muffled  sound.  The  feeling  of  remoteness  extended 
also  to  her  thoughts.  They  seemed  to  be  floating  about  in 
the  atmosphere  like  so  many  red  and  blue  balloons  and  she 
was  unable  to  get  them  back  into  her  head  where,  she  knew, 
they  belonged.  She  mastered  them  finally  and  crowded 
them  back  into  her  brain.  Now  she  could  think.  She  had 
been  waiting  for  something — wanting  to  know.  What  was 
it?  Oh,  yes,  she  recalled.  She  was  anxious  to  know 
whether  it  was  all  over — or  whether  the  thing  had  not  yet 
begun.  .  .  .  She  must  raise  herself  and  see.  .  .  . 

Raise  herself  she  did  not.  In  the  next  breath  she  joined 
the  red  and  blue  balloons  and  was  swinging  through  space 
with  them.  .  .  . 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  for  the  second  time  she  was 
in  bed  in  a  ward  with  other  patients.  The  light  in  the 
room  was  dim,  but  her  vision  was  clear,  and  from  her  limbs 
all  numbness  was  gone.  Noiselessly  an  attendant  was 
wheeling  out  a  stretcher  upon  which  she  was  brought  in. 

It  was  all  over.  .  .  .  She  was  aware  of  it  almost  before 

3 


4  THE  ROAD 

opening  her  eyes.  She  felt  that  she  was  on  the  eve  of  a 
great  celebration.  An  air  of  festivity  hung  over  everything. 
She  was  tired,  but  the  tiredness  did  not  keep  her  from  feel 
ing  the  unwonted  and  mysterious  thrill  that  was  coursing 
through  her  from  head  to  foot. 

The  doctor  was  standing  beside  the  bed,  gazing  at  her, 
and  a  feeling  of  shame  seized  her.  She  was  abashed  over 
her  condition — the  thing  she  had  just  come  out  of.  .  .  . 
She  must  apologize  to  him,  thank  him  for  what  he  had 
done  for  her.  She  was  extending  her  hand  to  him.  .  .  . 

Reason  had  broken  through  the  last  filmy  wall  of  un 
consciousness.  She  realized  what  she  was  about  and  shrank 
back  in  panic.  The  thing  she  had  dreaded  before  taking 
the  anesthetic,  the  irrepressible  craving  to  talk,  to  confide, 
to  yield — this  thing  was  upon  her.  It  was  one  of  the  in 
evitable  accompaniments  of  the  drug.  She  wondered 
whether  she  had  not  already  said  something  out  of  the 
way.  She  could  not  tell  from  the  expression  in  the  doc 
tor's  face.  At  any  rate  she  would  take  herself  in  hand 
immediately.  Her  future  was  in  the  balance.  It  could  be 
destroyed  with  a  careless  word. 

She  shook  as  if  she  had  taken  something  bitter.  Her 
features  became  tense  with  determination.  The  physician 
noted  the  excitement  under  which  she  labored. 

"Feeling  well?"  he  asked. 

"Y-es,"  Hilda  replied,  turning  her  eyes  away. 

The  doctor  made  a  move  as  if  to  go,  but  changed  his 
mind  and  remained. 

It  was  Sunday  and  it  was  nearly  midnight.  Dr.  Gilbert 
Norton,  house  physician  at  the  Swann  Maternity  Hospital, 


HILDA  5 

had  just  gone  through  one  of  the  most  thrilling  experiences 
of  his  still  young  practice.  After  a  trying  delivery  he  had 
worked  himself  into  a  sweat  before  he  finally  found  the 
voice  for  the  puny  infant.  Never  had  he  seen  a  child  so 
obstinate  in  its  refusal  to  come  to  life.  .  .  . 

He  was  still  vibrating  with  excitement^  over  his  success 
in  saving  the  infant's  life,  and  was  not  averse  to  sharing 
the  thrill  of  the  achievement  with  the  young  mother.  He 
was  waiting  for  her  to  speak,  to  ask  about  her  child. 

The  child — whether  it  was  well,  and  what  it  was,  a  boy 
or  a  girl — these  were  the  first  questions  mothers  asked  upon 
coming  to.  It  was  time  Hilda  asked  these  questions. 
She  was  completely  out  from  under  the  influence  of  the 
anesthetic  and  was  in  full  possession  of  her  senses.  Dr. 
Norton  waited,  but  she  was  not  asking.  She  was  not  speak 
ing.  Nor  did  he  feel  encouraged  to  start  a  conversation. 
Hilda  was  not  sleeping,  but  she  had  closed  her  eyes.  She 
apparently  wished  to  be  left  alone. 

They  had  not  taken  her  story  of  widowhood  seriously  at 
the  hospital.  But  they  were  not  making  any  distinctions 
between  married  and  unmarried  "cases,"  and  they  were  not 
prying  into  any  girl's  past.  Dr.  Norton  had  from  the  first 
taken  Hilda  to  be  unmarried  and  her  child  illegitimate. 
The  girl's  conduct,  her  tensity  and  silence,  at  a  time  when 
she  should  relax,  should  speak,  not  only  tended  to  confirm 
this  view,  but  gave  him  occasion  for  further  reflection. 

The  case  plainly  was  one  of  more  than  ordinary  tragedy. 
The  child  was  more  than  unwanted;  that  all  illegitimate 
children  were.  It  was  a  dread  and  burden  to  its  mother. 
Nor  could  he  condemn  the  girl  for  apparently  feeling  that 


6  THE   ROAD 

way  toward  the  infant ;  Hilda  was  so  young.  He  had  taken 
her  to  be  a  country  girl  who  had  been  betrayed,  ruined. 
Everything  about  her  seemed  to  bear  out  this  view.  There 
was  nothing  of  the  city's  slums  about  her  face  or  in  her 
speech;  not  a  trace  of  wantonness,  of  coarseness.  In  spite 
of  her  condition  the  girl  retained  about  herself  an  air  of 
innocence. 

As  he  meditated  over  these  things  Dr.  Norton  was  won 
dering  whether  his  luck  in  saving  the  infant's  life,  upon 
which  he  had  been  congratulating  himself,  was  luck,  or  was 
but  the  irony  of  fate.  .  .  .  His  frantic  efforts  had  appar 
ently  forced  into  life  only  that  which  might  have  been  bet 
ter  dead.  .  .  . 

However,  having  almost  miraculously  saved  the  child's 
life  he  was  not  going  to  take  chances  on  having  it  snuffed 
out  by  a  crazed  mother.  He  took  one  final  look  at  Hilda 
and  left  the  room. 

In  the  hall  he  gave  the  nurse  strict  orders.  A  careful 
watch  was  to  be  kept  over  the  girl,  especially  when  the  child 
was  with  her.  She  was  laboring  under  a  great  strain  and 
there  was  no  telling  when  she  might  go  into  hysterics  and 
attempt  to  smother  the  infant. 

While  the  physician  was  speaking  to  the  nurse  Hilda 
was  making  the  most  of  these  few  unguarded  moments. 
With  a  violent  effort  she  raised  her  head  and  let  her  gaze 
glide  slowly,  searchingly  down  the  length  of  her  even, 
slender  body.  She  had  anticipated  this  moment  for  months 
and  would  not  deprive  herself  of  the  ecstasy  which  this 
drinking  in  of  the  sight  of  her  transformation  gave  her,  even 


HILDA  7 

if  the  strain  of  holding  up  her  head  was  too  much  for  her 
exhausted  frame. 

Yes,  it  was  all  over.  .  .  .  The  words  had  a  joyous  sound 
in  her  ears.  Whatever  might  come  next, — with  this  thing 
she  was  through.  .  .  .  She  was  her  former  self  again. 
Moreover  nothing  really  bad  could  happen  to  her  now. 
Giving  birth  was  what  she  dreaded  most — and  that  was 
over.  She  was  actually  herself,  "just  herself"  again  after 
eight  months. 

Eight  months!  Were  they  only  months?  They  had 
seemed  to  her  like  years,  ages.  .  .  .  But  whatever  they  had 
been,  they  were  ended.  She  would  blot  them  out.  She 
would  banish  them  from  her  memory  as  one  banishes  a  bad 
dream.  .  .  .  The  future —  Her  brain  was  in  a  riot  over 
the  future.  .  .  .  She  was  making  plans,  all  sorts  of  plans. 
.  .  .  Everything  would  be  well  now — must  be  well.  .  .  . 
And  all  her  clothes  would  fit  her  again.  .  .  .  She  was  trans 
ported  with  joy,  with  relief. 

The  nurse  came.  Was  there  anything  she  wished?  Ice? 
She  could  have  ice.  But  Hilda  wanted  nothing.  No,  she 
felt  no  nausea,  no  pain.  She  was  just  tired.  She  wanted 
to  sleep.  .  .  . 

She  closed  her  eyes.  She  meant  to  keep  them  closed 
until  the  nurse  was  out  of  the  room.  Then  she  would  drop 
this  pose  of  being  sleepy  and  would  go  on  with  her  thoughts, 
with  her  ecstasies.  But  she  was  more  tired  than  she  her 
self  was  aware  of.  In  a  few  moments  she  was  sleeping.  .  .  . 

She  woke  as  suddenly  as  she  had  gone  to  sleep.     The 


8  THE   ROAD 

spring  night  was  at  an  end,  but  the  sun  had  not  yet  risen. 
Gray  dawn  was  breaking  into  the  room  and  gave  the  frail 
light  on  the  nurse's  table  a  timid  aspect.  The  other  patients 
were  sound  asleep. 

It  was  several  moments  before  Hilda  recalled  where  she 
was  and  the  occasion  for  her  being  there.  The  thought  of 
the  child  struck  her  like  a  hammer  blow. 

She  had  given  birth  to  a  child.  That  was  the  signifi 
cance  of  her  surroundings,  of  the  strange  night  she  had 
passed.  What  for  months,  weary,  interminable  months,  had 
been  but  a  nameless  trouble  to  her,  something  to  grit  her 
teeth  at,  to  hate  blindly,  had  come  to  an  issue.  It  was  a 
human  entity  now — a  child.  Detached  from  her  own  flesh 
it  was  now  lying  some  place  near,  perhaps  in  an  adjoining 
room,  lying  and  waiting — for  her.  .  .  . 

It  was  with  herself  only  Hilda  had  thus  far  been  con 
cerned.  With  regard  to  the  child  her  mind  was  made  up. 
She  would  not  have  it,  of  course.  It  would  go  the  way  all 
such  children  went.  .  .  .  There  were  institutions  for  them, 
foundling  homes  in  the  big  city.  .  .  .  That  was  why  she 
came  to  New  York.  .  .  .  The  process  of  actual  transfer  of 
the  child  from  herself  to  an  institution  she  had  never  con 
sidered.  While  the  child  was  unborn  there  were  always 
more  poignant  things  to  think  about.  She  left  these  details 
for  after.  .  .  . 

Now  it  was  "after."  ...  She  must  have  a  definite  plan. 
.  .  .  She  must  have  the  child  taken  from  her  before  she 
left  the  hospital.  Yes,  before.  .  .  .  She  meant  to  go  out 
into  the  world  again  with  her  slate  wiped  clean  of  this 
experience.  .  .  . 


HILDA  9 

Into  the  world.  .  .  .  Her  heart  began  to  beat  faster  at 
the  thought.  .  .  .  She  saw  a  street,  Broadway, — she  was 
walking  down  Broadway  in  her  summer  dress — for  she 
would  never  go  to  Chicago  again,  never  go  near  home — it 
would  be  just  the  season  to  wear  this  dress  by  the  time 
everything  was  over.  .  .  . 

She  gazed  down  the  length  of  the  bed,  of  her  body,  and 
fell  to  listening  to  herself.  .  .  .  She  was  fascinated  by  the 
ease  which  every  part  of  her  body  radiated.  ...  It  was 
unbelievable,  but  the  pain  of  yesterday,  of  those  weeks  and 
months,  was  gone.  It  had  utterly  disappeared.  .  .  .  There 
was  none  of  that  blind  tugging  at  her  vitals.  .  .  .  She  was 
light  and  free.  ...  It  was  an  exquisite  feeling.  .  .  .  She 
was  intensely  happy.  .  .  . 

The  cold  morning  air  was  taking  the  crispness  out  of  this 
ecstasy  before  she  had  more  than  quaffed  it.  The  problem 
of  the  child  was  at  her  throat  again.  .  .  .  Now  she  could 
no  longer  shrink  from  this  thought.  It  had  to  be  faced, 
the  child  was  there — under  the  same  roof  with  her.  .  .  . 
She  would  soon  see  it;  they  would  bring  it  to  her.  .  .  . 
What  was  she  to  do  with  it?  How  was  she  to  dispose  of 
it? 

She  was  limp  with  weakness  and  she  suddenly  made  a 
discovery.  She  had  been  hasty  when  she  believed  herself 
entirely  free  from  pain.  .  .  .  The  strain  and  heaviness 
had  not  altogether  left  her.  They  had  merely  shifted  to 
her  head.  .  .  .  Her  head  felt  aching,  battered.  .  .  .  The 
child.  .  .  . 

Through  the  slightly  raised  window  gusts  of  pale  morn 
ing  air  were  filtering  into  the  room.  She  was  cold  and  drew 


io  THE   ROAD 

the  blanket  up  to  her  chin.  With  the  warmth  came  a  feel 
ing  of  rest,  of  tranquillity.  .  .  .  The  problem  of  the  child 
was  receding.  ...  It  was  disappearing  altogether.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  child.  ...  It  was  dead — was  born  dead. 
.  .  .  She  was  afraid.  .  .  . 

She  had  always  been  afraid  of  people  after  they  were 
dead.  It  was  a  weakness  of  hers  from  childhood  on.  She 
had  been  afraid  even  of  her  mother  when  she  died,  and  the 
night  before  the  funeral  they  had  to  take  her  to  a  neighbor 
to  sleep.  .  .  .  Often  in  later  years  she  had  regretted  that 
she  had  not  spent  that  last  night  under  the  same  roof  with 
her  mother.  She  had  never  quite  forgiven  herself  for  that 
neglect.  .  .  . 

The  blanket  was  stealthily  pushing  its  way  up.  It  now 
covered  her  face  and  eyes  and  she  had  no  more  fears.  .  .  . 
Thoughts  of  the  future  came  once  more.  But  she  waved 
them  aside.  .  .  .  That  was  no  time  to  think  about  the  fu 
ture — with  the  child  lying  in  the  next  room  dead.  .  .  .  She 
was  thinking  about  the  funeral.  .  .  .  She  must  see  to  it 
that  the  child  was  given  a  decent  burial.  She  would  insist 
on  it.  ... 

The  funeral  was  over.  .  .  .  She  was  now  alone  in  the 
world,  but  she  was  unafraid.  .  .  .  Life  had  no  terrors  for 
her  now.  .  .  .  She  knew  how  to  meet  it.  ... 

Yes,  she  would  manage  her  life  differently,  better.  .  .  . 
The  first  thing  she  would  do  would  be  to  look  for  a  job 
out  of  her  line.  .  .  .  She  was  sick  of  the  factory.  She 
would  look  for  a  job  in  a  store  or  maybe  in  an  office.  Yes, 
in  an  office.  Why  had  she  always  been  so  afraid  of  office 
work!  Some  office  jobs  paid  as  good  as  the  factory,  even 


HILDA  ii 

from  the  start.  And  her  education  was  as  good  as  that  of 
many  a  girl  who  had  worked  in  an  office.  She  always  had 
been  good  in  spelling.  In  fact,  she  was  very  nearly  at  the 
top  of  her  class  in  almost  everything.  .  .  . 

She  might  even  manage  to  go  to  a  business  college  nights. 
Several  girls  she  had  known  in  Chicago  were  attending  busi 
ness  college  evenings.  Of  course  those  girls  had  homes  and 
parents.  .  .  .  She  too  would  have  gone  to  business  college 
if  her  mother  had  been  alive.  .  .  . 

Her  mother,  she  recalled  faintly,  often  used  to  speak  of 
business  college.  She  regretted  that  she  had  not  gone  to 
one  herself  and  she  hoped  that  she,  Hilda,  would.  But  that 
was  long  ago.  ...  It  was  when  her  mother  was  well  yet. 
.  .  .  Strange,  how  pale  and  indistinct  the  memory  of  her 
mother  had  become.  And  yet  she  was  not  so  young  when 
her  mother  died.  She  was  eight  years.  .  .  . 

But  what  was  this?  Her  mother  was  alive.  She  was 
standing  beside  her  bed,  and  her  face  was  radiant.  In  her 
arms  she  held  a  baby.  It  was  her  baby,  and  her  mother 
^was  cooing  to  it  delightedly .  .  .  . 

"He  is  so  sweet,"  her  mother  was  saying  of  the  infant, 
"and  I  am  so  lonely.  I  shall  take  him  with  me  to 
heaven."  .  0  . 

Hilda  opened  her  eyes.  The  nurse  was  laying  a  quilted 
bundle  close  to  her  side. 

The  sun  was  out  and  the  early  morning  mist  had  disap 
peared.  Several  women  were  sitting  up  in  their  beds  cran 
ing  their  necks,  in  the  direction  of  Hilda  and  the  nurse. 

"Your  son,"  the  nurse  chatted  cheerfully,  "has  been  call 
ing  for  his  breakfast." 


12  THE   ROAD 

She  examined  Hilda's  breast  and  next  began  maneuvering 
her  left  arm  about  the  quilted  bundle.  The  infant  was  ap 
parently  asleep  again;  it  was  quiet.  The  face  of  the  child 
was  covered  and  for  this  Hilda  was  thankful.  She  needed 
a  breathing  space  to  prepare  herself  for  the  new  role. 

"There,  we  are  ready  now,"  the  nurse  finally  announced, 
and  putting  away  the  cotton  and  boric  acid  she  drew  aside 
the  cloth  from  the  little  face.  .  .  . 

Hilda's  heart  stood  still.  The  nurse  had  manipulated 
her  hand  and  body  so  that  she  felt  a  velvety  touch  against 
her  breast.  .  .  .  And  now  the  nurse  was  talking  to  her 
softly.  She  was  initiating  her  into  the  secret  of  a  mother's 
first  feeding.  But  Hilda  did  not  half  hear  her.  Her  mind 
was  far  away  and  a  mist  rose  before  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  Chicago  ten  months  earlier.  Raymond  Evert 
had  written  her  to  meet  him  at  eight  o'clock  that  evening. 
She  was  at  the  appointed  place,  but  he  had  not  yet  arrived. 
Ten  minutes  passed,  twenty,  half  an  hour.  Still  he  was  not 
there.  She  grew  impatient,  she  was  worried.  The  twilight 
was  deepening.  Finally  she  spied  a  figure,  a  mere  shadow, 
far  down  the  street,  whose  walk  was  suggestive  of  Ray 
mond.  She  waited  with  beating  heart.  The  figure  was  ap 
proaching  at  a  rapid  pace.  In  a  few  seconds  the  outlines 
of  the  body  became  pronounced — more  like  Raymondo 
Another  instant  and  she  recognized  his  features  in  the  dusk, 
recognized  them  before  she  was  able  clearly  to  discern 
them.  .  .  . 

She  was  experiencing  the  same  sensation  now.  Looking 
at  the  tiny  face  of  the  infant  was  like  seeing  Raymond  a 


HILDA  13 

great  way  off.  ...  She  had  a  feeling  that  she  needed  but 
to  wait  and  Raymond  would  come  swinging  himself  nearer 
and  nearer  as  he  did  that  July  evening  in  Chicago.  .  .  . 
She  became  faint;  her  arm  released  the  infant.  .  •.  . 

The  child  dropped  the  breast  and  was  crying.  Hilda's 
trance-like  reveries  were  broken. 

"You  must  not  let  yourself  become  so  agitated,"  the  nurse 
said  sternly.  "It  is  not  good  for  the  baby." 

When  the  infant  was  eating  once  more,  and  the  folds 
had  straightened  out  on  its  tiny  face,  the  nurse  began  speak 
ing  softly  again.  The  child  was  greatly  under  weight — 
not  quite  five  pounds — and  would  require  a  great  deal  of 
care  and  patience  until  it  was  brought  around  to  a  point 
where  it  would  be  like  the  average  in  body  and  strength. 

But  the  youngster  was  worth  all  the  trouble  she  would 
take  with  him,  she  cheered  Hilda.  She  should  have  seen 
it  when  it  had  its  eyes  open.  They  were  big  and  blue,  and 
they  shone  like  two  stars.  And  what  a  will  of  his  own  the 
little  one  had!  She  described  the  resistance  the  infant 
had  put  up  at  birth,  and  she  praised  Dr.  Norton.  Any 
other  physician  would  have  given  the  child  up  for  dead. 

Hilda,  who  had  had  a  desire  to  clasp  the  little  one  and 
bring  it  up  close  to  her  face,  was  sent  off  dreaming  again 
by  the  recital.  When  nurse  and  baby  were  gone  she  stared 
at  her  empty  arm.  The  sensation  which  the  pressure  of 
the  child  against  her  flesh  had  left  was  evaporating  like  a 
delicate  perfume.  If  the  child,  too,  could  evaporate  like 
that,  she  thought.  If  her  agitation,  her  grief,  her  all- 
consuming  fear  could  but  transform  themselves  into  a  dream 
from  which  there  would  be  relief  on  waking.  ;  «  * 


14  THE   ROAD 

From  her  arm  her  gaze  traveled  to  her  breast.  There 
was  a  drop  of  milk  on  it.  She  wiped  it.  It  felt  strange 
and  tender.  Pains  were  coming  over  her  and  she  let  her 
head  sink  back  on  the  pillow.  She  felt  the  tears  running 
down  her  cheeks,  but  she  was  powerless  to  stem  them.  She 
was  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
was  falling,  falling  to  a  great  depth.  ...  If  some  one  would 
only  help  her, — if  a  friend  would  only  give  her  a  hand, — 
if — if  only  Raymond  were  there.  .  .  . 

"Raymond,  Raymond — "  she  pressed  the  pillow  to  her 
face  and  sobbed.  .  .  . 

It  was  nearly  10  o'clock  when  the  nurse  brought  the  in 
fant  for  the  second  feeding.  Hilda  had  calmed  down.  She 
strained  her  every  muscle  to  make  the  child  comfortable 
in  her  arms  and  she  succeeded.  It  was  eating  greedily. 
The  nurse  praised  her  for  her  quick  adaptability  and  hur 
ried  off  to  another  bed  to  look  at  another  babe.  By  the 
time  the  feeding  was  over  Hilda  was  bathed  in  perspiration. 
The  infant  had  fallen  asleep  at  the  breast  and  she  was 
afraid  to  stir  lest  she  wake  it  and  it  begin  to  cry.  .  .  . 
She  was  glad  when  the  child  was  taken  from  her  and  she 
could  close  her  eyes  and  rest. 

They  woke  her  out  of  a  sound  sleep  for  her  dinner.  Hilda 
gazed  at  the  room  and  the  people  as  if  she  were  seeing 
them  for  the  first  time.  They  did  not  seem  the  same  to 
her:  nothing  was  the  same.  She  wished  she  had  a  mirror 
and  could  look  at  herself.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  too 
must  look  different  now.  She  felt  different.  .  .  . 

As  she  ate  she  remembered  faintly  that  when  the  nurse 


HILDA  15 

woke  her  she  was  in  the  midst  of  something  momentous, 
something  that  was  shedding  a  great  light,  was  lifting  a 
great  load  from  her  mind.  It  was  a  dream,  of  course,  but 
what  was  it?  When  she  had  finished  her  meal  she  closed 
her  eyes  and  summoned  all  her  strength  to  recall  what  it 
was  she  had  been  dreaming.  And  suddenly  she  found  the 
ends  of  the  broken  thread  and  tied  them  together.  Her 
thoughts  flowed  on  once  more.  But  they  were  not  thoughts ; 
they  were  pictures. 

She  was  viewing  a  series  of  pictures.  They  were  hazy 
at  first.  But  gradually  the  haze  seemed  to  be  rolling  more 
and  more  into  the  distance  and  the  pictures  stood  out 
clearly. 

She  descried  a  little  boy  on  his  way  to  school.  His  shoes 
were  old  and  much  too  big  for  his  small  feet.  His  clothes 
fitted  illy.  His  hair  and  ears  were  neglected  and  his  face 
had  that  seriousness  which  comes  to  children  that  have 
never  known  their  parents.  .  .  .  The  little  boy  was  bigger 
now  and  was  going  to  work.  There  were  several  buttons 
missing  in  his  coat,  and  he  still  had  the  timid  look  which 
characterized  him  as  a  child.  .  .  .  He  was  older,  a  young 
man.  He  was  straight  and  tall,  with  a  kind  face  and  quiet 
manners.  ...  He  was  married.  ...  He  had  children.  .  .  . 
It  was  her  son.  .  .  .  They  were  her  grand-children.  .  .  . 
They  passed  her  on  the  street,  but  they  did  not  know 
her.  .  .  .  She  ran  after  them.  .  .  .  She  called,  but  her 
voice  was  weak  and  they  were  lost  in  the  crowd.  .  .  .  She 
would  never  see  them  again.  .  .  .  And  she  was  an  old 
woman.  .  .  . 

Hilda  woke  from  her  half  slumber,  clinging  to  her  last 


16  THE   ROAD 

visionings,  determined  to  drag  them  out  from  the  realm  of 
dreams,  and  making  sure  that  not  a  detail  of  the  picture 
she  had  been  viewing  escaped  her. 

The  women  patients  now  lay  or  sat  up  cheerfully  and 
contented.  There  was  always  peace  and  contentment  in 
the  ward  after  the  noon  meal.  Hilda,  however,  experienced 
a  sensation  of  packing  and  moving.  .  .  .  She  had  no  idea 
where  she  was  going,  but  she  was  going.  .  .  .  She  was  mov 
ing  away  from  herself,  from  her  old  life.  .  .  .  This  old  life 
of  hers  seemed  like  a  dress  that  she  had  slipped  off  and 
which  would  never  fit  her  again.  .  .  .  The  child  would 
never  be  altogether  out  of  her  life.  ...  It  was  not  this 
way  she  had  imagined  having  a  child.  .  .  .  The  physical 
barriers  between  herself  and  the  infant  would  not  extend 
to  her  thoughts.  ...  In  thought  she  would  be  with  the 
child  through  growth,  sickness,  trouble — until  death  closed 
her  eyes.  ...  All  her  former  plans  were  blurred.  .  .  . 

A  breeze  was  sweeping  into  the  room,  a  soft  spring 
breeze.  It  reminded  her  of  the  afternoon  in  September 
when  she  sat  by  the  lake  in  Chicago,  looking  down  into  its 
blue  waters,  thinking  of  her  misfortune  and  wondering 
whether  to  choose  the  blue  waters — or  to  choose  New  York. 
.  .  .  Why  did  her  courage  fail  her!  Why  did  she  not  end 
it  all  then.  .  .  .  Why  was  she  not  at  the  bottom  of  Lake 
Michigan.  .  .  . 


The  head  nurse  herself  brought  the  child  for  the  after 
noon  feeding.    Miss  Hulbert  was  close  to  forty.    She  was 


HILDA  17 

slightly  above  middle  height,  and  round  of  figure.  Her 
skin  was  of  transparent  whiteness.  She  had  been  earning 
her  livelihood  in  the  hospitals  of  New  York  since  her  seven 
teenth  year  and  was  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  shadowy 
side  of  life  in  the  great  city.  She  was  tactful  and  easily 
won  the  confidence  of  her  patients. 

She  had  come  to  get  acquainted  with  Hilda.  Dr.  Norton 
had  sent  her  to  see  if  she  could  not  be  of  service  to  the 
girl.  But  Miss  Hulbert  was  not  intruding,  neither  with 
words  nor  looks. 

Hilda  had  learned  to  adjust  herself  better  and  found  the 
process  of  feeding  less  of  a  strain.  She  was  not  so  tired 
and  observed  the  child  as  it  nursed. 

The  resemblance  between  the  infant  and  Raymond,  on 
close  observation,  was  even  greater  than  had  appeared  to 
her  at  the  first  glance.  For  an  instant  she  was  tempted 
to  speak  to  the  infant — about  Raymond.  But  she  saw  the 
absurdity  of  it  and  a  smile  broke  over  her  face.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  smiled  in  many  months,  and  it  was  brief. 
Hilda  felt  as  if  she  had  done  something  out  of  the  way  in 
permitting  herself  to  smile  and  proceeded  with  her  examina 
tion  of  the  infant. 

The  child  had  fallen  away  from  the  breast  and  the  tiny 
lips  still  puckered  from  clinging  to  the  nipple.  Its  eyes 
were  wide  open  and  they  were  everything  the  nurse  had 
bespoken  for  them.  They  were  big  and  blue,  and  to  Hilda 
they  were  even  more.  They  were  familiar,  reminiscent. 
The  child  was  not  the  intruding  hateful  stranger  she  had 
been  expecting  in  those  eight  months.  ...  It  belonged  in 
her  life.  It  seemed  a  part  of  the  wonderful  Summer  she 


i8  THE   ROAD 

and  Raymond  had  spent  together,  of  the  Sundays  on  the 
lake,  in  the  parks,  in  the  fields.  .  .  . 

Tenderly,  so  as  not  to  expose  it  to  the  breeze,  she  undid 
the  child's  blanket.  The  infant  was  wrapped  in  an  ill- 
fitting  shirt  that  must  have  served  scores  of  other  children 
before.  She  had  not,  of  course,  thought  of  preparing  clothes 
for  it,  and  now  a  feeling  of  guilt  came  over  her.  She  was 
ashamed.  She  had  treated  the  mite  shabbily.  The  tiny 
body  of  the  infant  was  in  view.  The  limbs  were  thin  and 
long — skin  and  bones.  She  covered  the  little  body  quickly 
and  turned  to  the  infant's  face  once  more. 

The  nurse,  in  passing,  told  her  that  she  was  coming  for 
the  child  in  a  few  minutes  and  a  wave  of  excitement  sud 
denly  came  over  Hilda.  She  experienced  a  sensation  as  if 
the  child  was  about  to  be  taken  from  her  forever,  and  there 
was  something  to  do  at  once,  quick.  .  .  .  She  was  trying 
to  think  what  it  was  she  must  do.  ...  A  memory  came  to 
her,  a  recent  memory. 

It  was  just  about  a  week  before  she  went  to  the  hospital. 
She  was  sitting  in  her  room  alone — she  had  already  ceased 
to  go  to  work.  .  .  .  She  had  sat  through  the  morning  and 
the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon,  brooding.  ...  It  had 
been  raining  steadily  and  she  could  stand  it  no  longer.  .  .  . 
A  sudden  resolution  came  upon  her.  She  turned  on  the 
gas  jet  on  the  wall  above  her  head  and  laid  down  to  die. 
.  .  .  The  gas  odors  were  trickling  down  to  her  slowly. 
.  .  .  She  felt  a  sweetness,  a  nausea.  .  .  .  Soon,  soon  it 
would  be  over.  .  .  .  She  would  sleep,  she  would  rest.  .  .  . 
She  would  forget  all.  .  .  .  She  was  glad  she  had  the  courage 


HILDA  19 

to  do  this  thing  at  last.  .  .  .  And  then — a  wild  cry  arose. 
.  .  .  Something  was  crying  within  her.  ...  A  thousand 
voices  seemed  raised  in  alarm.  .  .  .  She  gathered  all  her 
strength,  rose  and  took  a  step  to  the  window.  ...  It  re 
quired  great  effort  to  raise  it;  but  she  succeeded.  The  air 
revived  her.  .  .  . 

Just  such  an  alarm  was  rising  within  her  now.  .  .  .  Con 
fused  voices  were  pleading,  crying,  protesting.  .  .  .  They 
were  weeping  for  the  child.  .  .  . 

Her  whole  being  wept  and  the  tears  were  sweeping  every 
thing  before  them.  .  .  .  Her  plans,  her  future,  her  own  hap 
piness — they  mattered  not.  .  .  .  Nothing  mattered,  except 
life — the  life  of  the  child.  .  .  .  She  would  not  dim  this 
life.  .  .  . 

"Poor  babe,"  she  attempted  to  speak,  but  the  tears  were 
choking  off  her  breath.  .  .  .  "No,  no,"  the  words  stormed 
in  her  brain.  The  hatred  she  had  nurtured  in  those  months 
of  doubt  were  intended  for  some  one  else,  for  some  other 
child — a  child  she  did  not  know, — not  for  him.  ...  He 
was  her  son  .  .  .  her  son,  come  what  will.  .  .  .  She  would 
live  for  him.  .  .  .  She  would  suffer  for  him.  .  .  . 

And  happy  to  a  point  of  hysteria  she  brought  her  face 
down  close  to  the  bundled-up  human  parcel  and  cr 
the  child  with  tender,  mumbling  kisses.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   II 
RAYMOND 

"APPLIED  ALTRUISM"  was  the  subject  of  the  lecture  that 
afternoon,  and  the  large  auditorium  at  the  Chicago  Uni 
versity  was  unusually  well  filled.  Professor  Mussey  was 
one  of  the  newest  acquisitions  of  the  University.  His  repu 
tation  as  a  philosopher  was  national  and  it  was  unique. 
He  had  struck  out  along  new  paths  and  was  linking  philos 
ophy  and  life,  ethics  and  business,  in  a  manner  no  scholar 
in  America  had  hitherto  attempted. 

His  "instance  from  life'7  with  which  to  illustrate  his 
lecture  that  afternoon,  Professor  Mussey  had  found  in  a 
well  known  Chicago  business  man  whose  death  was  of  re 
cent  memory.  He  did  not  speak  of  the  man  by  name,  but 
referred  to  him  as  the  "merchant  prince." 

As  the  professor  unraveled  the  career  of  this  "merchant 
prince"  various  phases  of  altruism  seemed  to  find  their 
exemplification  in  life.  Everything  this  man  undertook  and 
did  during  his  lifetime,  in  one  way  or  another,  benefited 
his  fellow  citizens.  As  an  employer  he  had  benefited  his 
employees;  he  was  a  pioneer  in  the  matter  of  establishing 
welfare  institutions.  As  a  merchant  he  had  benefited  his 
clients  by  his  honorable  business  methods.  As  a  citizen 
he  had  benefited  the  community  by  his  generous  acts  of 

20 


RAYMOND  21 

philanthropy;  by  the  museums  he  built,  the  libraries  he 
founded. 

Of  course  every  one  of  the  students  knew  the  name  of  the 
"merchant  prince"  the  professor  was  speaking  of.  The 
very  description  of  the  man  as  a  merchant  prince  came  from 
the  newspapers,  whose  editorial  writers  never  wearied  of 
using  it.  The  mothers  and  sisters  of  the  students  had  fre 
quently  done  their  shopping  at  this  man's  store. 

Keen,  energetic,  young  fellows,  sons  of  business  men,  for 
the  most  part,  who  were  themselves  looking  forward  to  a 
business  career  at  the  completion  of  their  college  course, 
Professor  Mussey's  students  were  greatly  taken  by  this 
presentation  of  business  as  a  vehicle  for  the  practice  and 
expression  of  man's  highest  ideals.  .  .  .  They  listened 
eagerly  and  pleasantly,  and  their  opinion  of  the  professor 
rose  by  degrees. 

Yes,  Dr.  Mussey  was  not  one  of  the  ordinary  run  of  pro 
fessors.  He  was  not  a  mere  bookworm,  they  mused;  he 
knew  the  world.  Some  of  them  speculated  what  might 
have  happened  if  Professor  Mussey  had  himself  gone  into 
business.  With  his  ability  and  ideals  might  not  he, 
too,  have  become  a  merchant  prince  like  the  one  he  was 
eulogizing.  .  .  .  But  be  that  as  it  may,  Professor  Mus 
sey  was  a  great  man  and  deserved  the  fame  he  was 
getting. 

Raymond  Evert,  a  junior  in  the  college  of  Liberal  Arts, 
was  greatly  preoccupied  with  the  lecturer,  but  along  dif 
ferent  lines.  He  was  searching  the  professor  with  his  looks 
and  thoughts.  The  questions  of  right  and  wrong,  of  moral, 
or  immoral,  conduct,  which  the  professor  was  raising,  were 


22  THE    ROAD 

poignantly  personal  with  young  Evert  that  afternoon — had 
been  so  for  months. 

Professor  Mussey,  after  having  successfully  shown  "the 
good  and  the  beautiful"  in  the  career  of  the  "merchant 
prince,"  proceeded  with  a  general  analysis  of  some  of  the 
burdens  and  weaknesses  of  the  human  race.  He  unfolded 
tangled  human  problems,  dissected  emotions,  laid  bare  pas 
sions.  ...  He  did  this  with  understanding,  with  sympathy 
even,  but  with  a  complete  personal  detachment  which  to 
young  Evert,  that  afternoon,  was  tantalizing. 

Was  the  professor  immune  to  the  infirmities  of  the  soul  he 
was  conjuring  with?  Raymond  Evert  was  wondering.  Was 
any  one  immune?  Had  the  professor  in  his  own,  personal 
life  never  been  troubled  with  any  of  the  vital,  tragic  prob 
lems  and  doubts  he  was  raising?  Had  he  never  wronged 
any  one?  Never  done  anything  to  ruffle  his  calmness? 
Never  been  at  odds  with  his  conscience?  In  a  word  was 
the  professor's  serenity  native  with  him,  or  was  it  acquired? 
Could  any  one  acquire  it? 

William  Howard  Mussey  was  a  man  of  forty-five.  He  was 
tall  and  his  closely  cropped  beard  framed  a  face  that  showed 
none  too  much  of  the  pallor  ascribed  to  scholars.  He  was 
married.  Raymond  Evert  had  seen  the  professor  and  his 
wife  in  a  department  store  where  they  were  sampling  cheese 
like  ordinary  folks.  Professor  Mussey  apparently  was  no 
despiser  of  life.  He  was  a  man  like  all  men.  He  had  been 
a  boy  once ;  he  had  been  young.  Had  he  never  trifled  with 
girls? 

Raymond  had  a  sensation  as  if  he  were  plunging  a  scalpel 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  soul  of  the  professor,  but  it  was 


RAYMOND  23 

his  own  thoughts  and  problems  he  was  in  reality  laying 
open. 

Had  the  professor  ever  had  relations  with  girls?  Could 
Professor  Mussey  possibly  have  had  such  relations  with  a 
girl  as  he,  Raymond,  had  had  with  Hilda?  And  if  he  had, 
could  the  professor  have  forgotten  it?  Was  it  possible  ever 
to  forget  such  a  thing?  Would  he  also  forget?  Would  he, 
too,  be  able  to  stand  on  a  platform  some  day  and  speak  as 
Professor  Mussey  was  speaking,  of  right  and  wrong,  of  jus 
tice  between  man  and  man?  Would  he  ever  be  able  to  get 
Hilda  out  of  his  mind?  .  .  . 

The  voice  of  the  professor  now  carne  to  him  as  a  faint 
buzzing.  The  lecture  room,  the  people  seemed  to  have  re 
ceded  a  great  distance.  Everything  had  become  a  blurred 
mass.  Hilda's  face  alone  stood  out  sharp  and  clear.  ...  He 
was  waiting  for  Hilda  and  was  getting  restless.  .  .  .  What 
made  her  so  late?  The  whistle  had  blown  long  ago.  A  stream 
of  girls  had  already  left  the  factory.  ...  A  smile  spread 
over  his  face.  She  always  came  out  late  when  she  knew  he 
was  waiting  for  her.  She  was  taking  time  to  fix  up.  .  .  . 
Yes,  the  next  time  he  would  come  unexpected.  He  liked  to 
meet  her  unexpected.  He  liked  to  see  her  surprised  and 
pleased  look.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  stained  windows  in  the  hall  was  open.  A  gust 
of  wind  swept  through  the  room.  His  dream  dissolved  and 
his  thoughts  were  of  reality  once  more.  April  was  gone  and 
May  was  here.  It  was  the  first  week  in  May.  Where  was 
Hilda  now?  What  was  she  doing?  What  had  become  of 
her? 

Since  that  day  in  September  when  the  girl  had  come  to 


24  THE   ROAD 

their  home  asking  for  him,  and  his  father  had  driven  her 
from  the  house,  there  had  been  no  trace  of  her.  For  weeks 
after  that  visit  he  had  lived  in  dread.  They  had  all  lived 
in  dread.  He  was  expecting  daily  to  hear  from  Hilda 
through  a  lawyer,  through  the  police.  .  .  .  She  would  sue, 
she  would  expose  him.  .  .  .  She  would  bring  shame  upon 
his  family.  .  .  .  His  sleep  was  broken  and  fitful.  He  could 
not  concentrate  upon  his  work.  Instead  he  was  constantly 
rehearsing  a  defense,  a  denial  of  her  charges,  which  he  was 
mentally  delivering  now  in  court,  now  before  a  coroner's 
jury.  .  .  .  For  she  might  have  killed  herself. 

The  threatened  calamity  did  not  come  and  after  months 
they  began  to  breathe  easier  at  his  home,  especially  his 
father.  But  to  him  the  passing  of  time  brought  no  ease,  no 
rest.  ...  On  the  contrary,  he  had  often  wished  that  the 
thing  which  he  had  at  first  considered  a  calamity  had  come 
to  pass.  He  wished  the  girl  had  sued  him.  He  would  have 
faced  not  one,  but  a  battery  of  lawyers,  only  to  have  cer 
tainty.  .  .  . 

For  months  he  had  been  haunting  the  streets  through 
which  Hilda  formerly  walked  to  and  from  work.  At  6 
o'clock  every  evening  he  would  take  up  a  position  a  short 
distance  from  the  factory  where  she  had  worked  and  would 
watch  the  crowds  that  were  leaving  it,  scanning  them  for  her 
gait  and  figure.  But  Hilda  was  not  among  them.  He  had 
tried  the  tenement  where  she  lived.  He  stood  vigil  under  its 
windows  for  several  nights  in  succession.  But  Hilda  never 
showed  up.  She  had  disappeared  as  if  in  water.  .  .  . 

Water.  .  .  .  Was  that  the  answer?  Had  the  girl  drowned 
herself?  She  might  have.  Her  body  might  long  ago  have 


RAYMOND  25 

been  washed  ashore  by  the  waters  of  Lake  Michigan.  .  .  . 

But  if  Hilda  was  alive — then  there  might  be  a  child.  .  .  . 
Yes,  there  might,  by  this  time.  ...  It  was  May.  ...  A 
child.  ...  He  might  be  a  father  now.  .  .  . 

The  blood  rushed  to  Raymond's  face  and  he  looked  about 
furtively  to  see  if  any  one  of  the  students  had  been  ob 
serving  him.  .  .  .  But  no  one  was  looking  in  his  direction. 
Professor  Mussey  was  bringing  the  lecture  to  a  close  and  the 
students  were  busy  scribbling  down  names  of  books  for  ref 
erence  reading. 

The  weather  was  superb.  It  was  the  first  warm  spring 
day.  As  the  students  rambled  out  of  the  building  many 
of  them  separated  into  couples  and  started  down  the  campus 
in  the  direction  of  the  lake.  Others  strolled  down  that  way 
singly.  It  was  the  last  recitation  with  most  of  them,  and 
it  was  a  delightful  afternoon  for  a  walk. 

Raymond  Evert  was  standing  on  the  steps  of  Arts  Hall 
undecided.  His  parents  lived  at  the  other  end  of  Chicago, 
but  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  get  home.  He  was  thinking 
whether  to  go  down  to  the  Lake  or  start  in  the  direction 
of  the  city. 

"Glorious  weather,  isn't  it?"  a  girl's  voice  rang  out  be 
side  him. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Straight,"  Raymond  greeted  her. 
"Yes,  a  fine  day." 

Young  Evert  has  been  trying  to  lighten  his  work  that 
year  and  he  had  drifted  into  a  course  on  "Labor  Problems." 
The  course  was  taken  mostly  by  seniors,  graduate  students, 
and  social  settlement  workers.  There  were  no  textbooks 
and  the  lectures  by  the  professor  seemed  like  a  running 


26  THEROAD 

commentary  on  things  one  was  reading  in  the  newspapers. 
In  this  class  he  and  Miss  Straight  occupied  adjoining  chairs. 
They  also  met  in  one  or  two  other  classes. 

Maude  Straight  was  a  resident  at  one  of  the  social  settle 
ments  in  Chicago  and  was  taking  special  work  at  the  uni 
versity.  She  was  not  as  tall  as  Evert  with  whom  she  would 
often  walk  out  of  the  lecture  room,  but  she  was  stronger 
built  than  he.  She  was  very  fair  and  inclined  to  plumpness. 
Evert  never  could  tell  whether  this  detracted  from  her 
looks  or  added  charm  to  her  soft,  inviting  features. 

She  was  very  friendly  and  had  a  more  comprehensive 
understanding  of  economic  and  labor  questions  than  he. 
At  her  invitation  Evert  had  twice  visited  the  social  settle 
ment  in  which  she  was  a  worker.  The  effect  of  these  visits 
was  to  enhance  greatly  the  respect  which  he  already  felt  for 
her.  They  also  served  to  intensify  the  discrepancy  in  their 
ages.  The  young  woman  was  going  at  the  solution  of 
certain  private  and  domestic  problems  among  the  people  in 
the  "district"  with  the  mind  of  a  mature,  business-like  per 
son.  He  judged  her  to  be  at  least  five  years  older  than 
himself. 

In  Miss  Straight  the  nearer  acquaintance  with  Evert 
evoked  different  feelings.  She  was  interested,  in  fact  a  bit 
puzzled  by  his  quiet,  retiring  disposition.  ...  He  looked 
and  acted  like  a  man  who  was  laboring  under  a  handicap. 
.  .  .  She  was  wondering  what  that  handicap  might  be.  .  .  . 
It  could  not  be  a  matter  of  health,  for  apparently  he  was 
healthy.  They  were  not  yet  sufficient  friends  to  touch  upon 
intimate  matters.  .  .  . 

They  had  walked  down  the  steps.     Miss  Straight  was 


RAYMOND  27 

talking  about  Professor  Mussey's  lecture.  She  was  appre 
ciative  and  enthusiastic  over  it.  All  the  time  she  spoke 
Evert  was  conscious,  however,  that  she  was  waiting  for 
him  to  ask  her  for  a  stroll  to  the  lake; — he  had  taken  such 
a  stroll  with  her  once  before.  He  was  on  the  point  of  doing 
so,  but  the  desire  to  be  alone  won  out. 

He  said  something  about  having  to  rush  off  home.  Miss 
Straight  extended  her  hand  to  him.  She  did  not  believe 
that  he  was  busy,  but  she  saw  that  his  desire  to  be  alone 
was  genuine.  Something  was  pressing  on  his  mind.  She 
shook  his  hand  warmly.  There  was  a  fellow  feeling  and 
sympathy  in  it.  ... 

Raymond  plunged  straightway  into  his  thoughts  about 
Hilda.  ...  He  was  passing  through  one  of  the  poorer  sec 
tions  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  come  into  the  midst 
of  a  holiday  crowd.  On  the  curbstones  and  in  the  gutter 
children  were  playing.  Windows  were  wide  open  and  each 
window  framed  the  head  of  a  mother.  Girls  of  eight  and 
nine  were  dancing  to  the  tune  of  a  hurdy-gurdy.  They  re 
minded  him  of  himself  and  Hilda  many  years  back  at  their 
old  home  in  Wisconsin.  .  .  . 

If  he  could  only  shake  off  his  years,  shake  off  college, 
the  city,, — and  get  back  to  where  they  were  then!  Gad, 
he  vociferated  inwardly,  if  only  he  had  not  left  the  old  town, 
if  his  father  had  not  got  the  notion  of  Chicago.  .  .  .  Ex 
cept  for  those  months  with  Hilda  Chicago  had  given  him 
no  happiness.  .  .  . 

He  was  passing  a  cleaning  and  dyeing  establishment  lo 
cated  in  an  old  frame  building.  The  shop  was  on  a  level 
with  the  sidewalk.  Inside  a  young  Jew  was  sitting  astride 


28  THE   ROAD 

a  table  and  was  sewing  in  a  sleeve.  His  girl  v/ife  was 
sitting  on  a  chair  outside  the  door.  She  was  holding  on  to 
a  baby  carriage  in  which  an  infant  was  sleeping,  her  gaze 
constantly  darting  to  her  husband.  Every  time  their  eyes 
met  they  exchanged  smiles.  They  were  love-making  with 
out  words.  Raymond  stopped  in  front  of  the  shop  window, 
pretending  to  be  interested  in  the  cloth  samples  displayed 
there.  In  reality  he  was  gazing  at  the  young  tailor  and  his 
wife  and  was  thinking  how  little  was  necessary  to  make 
people  happy.  .  .  . 

An  immense  loneliness  came  over  him.  What  would  be 
come  of  Hilda  if  she  had  a  child.  .  .  .  What  had  he  done 
to  her.  .  .  .  The  park  was  visible  a  few  blocks  away.  He 
started  toward  it,  turned  in  and  walked  along  secluded  lanes. 
He  wished  to  be  alone,  unseen.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  LONG  AGO 

HILDA  was  meditating  over  the  road  she  had  chosea.  .  ;  ; 
The  child  lay  near  her  asleep,  its  tiny  chest  heaving  up 
and  down  with  rhythmic  succession.  Through  the  faded 
pale-blue  blanket,  in  which  it  was  wrapped,  life  was  beating. 
The  infant  not  yet  two  days  old  was  carrying  on  a  struggle 
for  existence.  .  .  .  She  tried  to  visualize  the  road  before 
them  but  could  not  follow  it.  It  seemed  to  be  running  on 
endlessly.  .  .  . 

She  bent  over  to  the  pink  little  face  and  felt  the  child's 
breath  on  her  lips.  .  .  . 

"Baby,"  she  whispered,  "sweetheart — Raymond.  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  short,  as  if  trying  to  arrest  the  word  she 
had  spoken,  to  retract  it.  But  in  the  next  breath  she 
yielded.  .  .  .  Raymond,  she  had  called  him,  and  Raymond 
let  the  child's  name  be.  ...  Yes,  Raymond.  .  .  . 

She  was  staring  straight  ahead  with  unseeing  eyes.  .  .  . 
She  had  always  thought  it  distinguished  for  father  and  son 
to  have  the  same  name  and  to  be  differentiated  only  by 
the  words  "senior"  and  "junior"  at  the  end.  .  .  .  "Ray 
mond  Evert,  Jr.,"  she  repeated  faintly.  .  .  .  She  had  once 
dreamed  of  it.  .  .  .  But  she  shook  off  the  thought  as  one 
shakes  off  a  fly.  No,  that  would  not  be  the  case  with  her 
son.  More  than  Raymond  she  would  not  take  from  his 

29 


30  THE   ROAD 

father's  name.    The  family  name  would  be  hers.    It  would 
be  Thorsen — Raymond  Thorsen.  .  .  . 

Her  thoughts  turned  upon  herself.  She  was  wondering  at 
the  calmness  with  which  she  was  thinking  these  things. 
She  was  acting  as  if  this  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world,  as  if  she  were  a  "regular"  mother,  had  a  husband 
waiting  to  welcome  her,  a  home  to  come  to,  instead  of  going 
out  into  a  hostile  world.  .  .  .  Did  she  realize  what  she  was 
doing — what  was  ahead  of  her.  .  .  .  She  was  parting  for 
ever  from  her  old  life,  from  her  old  self.  .  .  .  She  had  as 
sumed  the  role  of  a  widow  as  an  expedient,  to  escape  the 
shame  and  ostracism  which  her  condition  would  otherwise 
entail.  .  .  .  And  now  she  would  have  to  wear  the  mask 
forever — wear  it  and  live  up  to  it.  ... 

There  was  a  pounding  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  pavement 
in  the  street  below,  and  this  sharpened  her  hearing.  Noises 
which  she  had  failed  to  take  notice  of  for  the  past  few  days 
now  became  distinguishable.  .  .  .  The  rumbling  of  the  ele 
vated  trains,  the  buzz-saw-like  sound  from  a  nearby  factory, 
the  shrieking  of  the  sirens  from  the  boats  in  the  East  River 
— all  came  to  her  now  with  acute  sharpness.  .  .  .  The  city 
of  four  millions  was  speaking  and  it  was  speaking  depress- 
ingly.  .  .  . 

She  recalled  how  seven  months  earlier  she  had  dragged 
herself  from  factory  to  factory  looking  for  work.  The  same 
weary  trudging  awaited  her  now.  ...  It  would  be  repeated 
at  regular  intervals  for  years,  all  her  life.  .  .  .  She  would 
be  an  old  woman  by  the  time  her  son  was  grown.  .  .  . 

Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  She  seemed  to  be  rebuking  -some  one  im- 


THE    LONG    AGO  31 

patiently.  .  .  .  She  was  aware  of  these  things.  .  .  .  She 
knew  what  awaited  her.  .  .  .  But  she  did  not  care  to  think 
— now.  .  .  .  She  had  been  thinking  too  much  already.  .  .  . 
She  was  tired,  she  wanted  to  rest — to  let  her  mind  rest. 
...  It  was  good  to  rest,  especially  with  the  child  lying 
near  her,  as  it  was  now,  the  warmth  from  its  little  body 
radiating  toward  her.  .  .  . 

One  after  another  the  factory  whistles  were  shrieking  the 
announcement  that  the  day's  toil  was  over  and  the  faces  of 
the  women  in  the  ward  with  Hilda  became  eager  with  ex 
pectation.  It  was  visitors'  night. 

There  was  a  hasty  attention  to  appearance,  a  final  pat 
of  the  hair,  a  straightening  out  of  kimonos,  a  tugging  at 
nightgowns.  In  the  absence  of  mirrors,  women  were  exam 
ining  their  hands,  and  by  the  appearance  of  their  hands 
tried  to  judge  what  the  color  of  their  faces  might  be.  Sup 
per  was  eaten  in  haste,  and  then  for  about  ten  minutes  there 
was  a  silence  in  the  room  such  as  comes  sometimes  on  the 
eve  of  a  solemn  event. 

Promptly  at  eleven  o'clock  the  visitors  began  to  arrive. 
The  Swann  Maternity  was  located  on  the  upper  east  side 
of  New  York,  hard  by  the  East  River.  It  was  a  most  cos 
mopolitan  district,  the  newcomers  from  all  the  countries  of 
Europe  living  there.  The  foreign  aspect  of  her  surround 
ings  impressed  themselves  upon  Hilda  with  the  entrance  of 
the  first  visitor. 

He  was  a  tall  Hungarian  laborer  with  a  weather-beaten 
face  and  black,  bristling  mustache.  He  walked  on  tiptoe 
and  this  only  heightened  the  impression  of  pent-up  energy 
in  the  man.  The  Hungarian  apparently  was  having  dim- 


32  THE   ROAD 

culty  in  recognizing  his  wife,  the  hospital  beds  making  all 
patients  look  alike  from  a  distance.  He  stopped  bewildered, 
but  finally  caught  sight  of  a  hand  beckoning  to  him  from 
the  further  end  of  the  room.  He  recognized  his  wife,  ut 
tered  a  suppressed  "Ah"  and  started  toward  her. 

When  he  reached  her  side,  however,  the  Hungarian  was 
visibly  embarrassed.  He  was  the  only  man  in  the  ward 
and  he  did  not  know  how  to  act.  All  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him  and  he  swayed  from  foot  to  foot  for  some  moments. 
His  wife  finally  came  to  his  relief  by  motioning  to  him  to 
sit  down  beside  her  on  the  bed. 

A  huge  Irishman  in  the  forties,  who  had  the  appearance 
of  a  doorman  in  an  aristocratic  club,  came  next.  He  was 
pompous  and  stiff,  and  the  glance  and  greeting  he  and  his 
wife  exchanged  were  so  strained  and  casual  that,  had  he  not 
just  entered,  they  might  easily  have  given  the  appearance 
that  the  two  had  been  quarreling. 

Two  Italian  women  followed.  A  young  Pole,  smelling 
strongly  of  cheap  perfume,  was  next,  and  finally  a  young 
man  of  distinguished  appearance  entered.  The  latter  made 
his  way  to  the  bed  which  stood  next  to  Hilda's.  Late  that 
afternoon  Hilda  had  for  the  first  time  gathered  sufficient 
interest  to  look  over  to  the  young  woman  who  lay  in  the 
adjoining  bed.  From  conversation  which  her  neighbor  had 
had  with  the  nurse,  Hilda  gathered  that  it  was  her  second 
baby. 

The  distinguished  looking  man  was  the  only  one  to  bring 
flowers  to  his  wife.  The  rest  brought  things  to  eat — mostly 
cake  and  fruit.  The  Pole,  who  was  expecting  his  wife  to  go 
home  in  a  few  days,  in  addition  brought  her  a  kimono.  It 


THE    LONG    AGO  33 

was  a  loud,  dollar-and-a-quarter  affair,  but  it  seemed  to  give 
his  wife,  who  looked  to  be  only  eighteen  or  nineteen  years 
of  age,  no  end  of  pleasure.  She  gazed  at  it  with  rapturous 
eyes  as  if  it  were  a  fairy  mantle. 

The  men  were  taken  one  by  one  into  the  nursery  to  see 
the  children.  They  came  back  with  shining  eyes,  their  stiff 
ness  and  embarrassment  gone.  The  room  now  resounded 
with  eagerly  whispered  conversation.  As  the  visiting  hour 
drew  to  a  close  there  was  added  to  the  whispered  conver 
sation  a  soft  kissing. 

The  distinguished  looking  man  at  Hilda's  right  was  talking 
to  his  wife  in  a  foreign  language.  She  answered  him  in  that 
language,  but  just  as  often  she  would  say  something  to  him 
in  English.  She  spoke  it  as  one  born  to  it.  Her  husband  on 
the  other  hand  spoke  with  an  accent.  Bui  his  accent 
was  not  irritating.  It  was  not  the  accent  of  the  alien 
laborer  in  the  street.  There  was  an  air  of  refinement 
about  it. 

"Lyd-i-a,"  the  man  called  his  wife,  pronouncing  every 
syllable  separately.  She  called  him  Ernest.  He  was  kiss 
ing  her  arm.  His  head  was  inclining  more  and  more  toward 
his  wife's  face.  Hilda  pulled  the  blanket  tighter  about  her 
shoulder  and  turned  her  head  away  from  them. 

She  was  the  only  one  in  the  room  to  have  no  visitors  and 
as  the  men  were  leaving  she  felt  the  eyes  of  the  women 
turning  searchingly  toward  her.  She  was  different;  they 
all  felt  that  she  was  different.  Yes,  it  would  not  be  the 
only  time  eyes  would  turn  to  her  questioningly.  And  it 
would  not  be  alone  the  eyes  of  strangers.  After  some  years, 
when  he  was  old  enough  to  understand,  to  feel  the  absence, 


34  THE   ROAD 

of  a  father,  her  son  too  would  question  her.  ...  It  was 
easy  to  lie  to  the  world,  nor  did  it  matter  much  whether 
the  world  fully  believed  the  lie  or  not — so  long  as  it  left 
her  alone.  But  it  would  matter  with  the  child.  What 
would  she  tell  him? 

The  distinguished  looking  man  was  the  last  to  go  and 
was  taking  leave  of  his  wife.  The  sound  of  his  voice  stirred 
within  Hilda  a  faint  memory.  Her  father,  she  recalled, 
spoke  at  times  with  an  accent  not  unlike  that  of  the  man. 
Dim  shadows  of  her  childhood  rose  before  her  eyes ;  shadows 
of  mother,  father,  of  the  house  they  lived  in;  and  the  house 
across  the  road,  where  Raymond  and  his  people,  the  Everts, 
lived.  ...  At  the  thought  of  Raymond  she  instinctively 
drew  back.  She  did  not  want  him  linked  with  her  memo 
ries  just  then.  .  .  .  There  would  be  time  to  think  about 
him — later.  Now  she  wanted  to  think  of  her  home.  .  .  . 
Before  she  was  aware  of  it,  however,  Raymond  had  be 
come  the  pivot  about  which  all  her  memories  were  turn 
ing.  .  .  . 

Hilda's  memory  of  Raymond  Evert  went  back  to  the 
days  when  they  boAJi  wore  rompers  and  played  in  the  sand. 
She  was  somewhere  between  three  and  four  years  old; 
Raymond  was  a  year  older.  In  the  course  of  an  afternoon 
Hilda's  mother  would  call  the  two  into  the  kitchen  and 
give  each  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter  or  syrup.  Some 
times  Raymond's  mother  would  do  this. 

The  Evert  and  the  Thorsen  families  lived  across  the  road 
from  each  other  a  short  ways  beyond  the  city  limits  of 
Stillwell,  Wisconsin.  The  heads  of  the  families  engaged  in 


THE    LONG    AGO  35 

the  same  business,  which  was  that  of  supplying  the  city 
of  Stillwell  with  sand  for  its  constantly  rising  buildings. 
Henry  Evert,  Raymond's  father,  and  Hilda's  father,  Carl 
Thorsen,  each  owned  a  sandpit,  from  which  he  drew  his 
daily  bread  in  the  shape  of  so  many  wagon  loads  of  sand. 
There,  however,  the  similarity  between  the  two  men  and 
their  families  ended. 

Henry  Evert  was  a  tall,  well-built  man,  full  of  vitality 
and  energy.  He  was  a  figure  in  local  politics,  received  much 
mail  and  paid  frequent  visits  to  the  city  hall  and  the 
courthouse.  He  had  six  teams  going,  but  it  was  only  on 
very  rare  occasions  that  he  himself  took  a  load  of  sand  to 
the  city.  His  hired  men  did  this. 

Hilda's  father  was  eight  years  younger  than  his  neigh 
bor,  but  he  carried  himself  as  a  much  older  man  would. 
There  was  no  sparkle  in  him.  He  was  quiet  at  all  times. 
Carl  Thorsen,  too,  was  getting  only  the  odds  and  ends  of 
the  sand  business  in  Stillwell. 

Whenever  Hilda  recalled  her  father  she  ascribed  the  mute 
sadness  which  seldom  left  him,  to  her  mother's  condition. 
As  far  back  as  she  could  remember,  her  mother,  Selma 
Thorsen,  had  always  been  ailing.  She  always  seemed  as 
if  she  were  getting  ready  to  take  a  long  journey.  .  .  . 

Henry  Evert  was  acting  neither  fair  nor  neighborly  to 
ward  Carl  Thorsen.  He  was  frequently  taking  his  hired 
men  away  from  the  latter,  and  was  overlapping  on  his  busi 
ness  otherwise.  Every  time,  however,  that  Carl  Thorsen 
was  about  to  have  it  out  with  his  neighbor,  his  wife  would 
dissuade  him.  Mrs.  Thorsen  fully  understood  the  nature 
of  her  sickness.  She  knew  far  earlier  than  her  husband 


36  THE   ROAD 

what  was  in  store  for  her — and  she  wanted  peace  for 
herself  and  playmates  for  little  Hilda. 

Hilda  was  an  only  child,  while  in  the  Evert  family  there 
were  five  children.  The  Evert  children,  and  more  espe 
cially  Raymond,  the  youngest,  was  Hilda's  playmate. 

Until  she  was  six  years  old  her  mother  was  on  her  feet. 
But  no  sooner  had  she  started  school  than  Mrs.  Thorsen 
took  to  her  room.  Upon  coming  from  school  Hilda  would 
frequently  find  her  mother  lying  on  the  bed.  Mrs.  Thor 
sen  was  very  tender  with  her  now.  But  she  would  not 
let  little  Hilda  come  too  near  her,  and  would  send  her 
more  and  more  frequently  to  the  Everts  to  play  with  little 
Raymond. 

When  Hilda  was  eight  years  old  her  mother  died  and 
within  a  year  her  father  had  remarried.  It  was  an  indif 
ferent  marriage.  The  woman,  a  Mrs.  Shannon,  was  a 
widow  in  the  neighborhood  and  had  four  children,  all 
boys,  by  her  first  marriage.  The  Thorsen  home  now 
resounded  with  cries  and  fights  from  early  morning  until 
night.  Her  father  was  more  subdued  than  ever.  Between 
Hilda  and  her  stepbrothers,  and  through  them  with  her 
stepmother,  bad  blood  was  arising. 

While  the  clouds  were  thickening  over  the  Thorsen 
household,  the  sun  was  shining  for  the  Evert  family.  Henry 
Evert  had  gone  into  the  cement  business.  Weekly  and 
sometimes  twice  a  week  he  would  now  go  to  Chicago, 
which  was  three  hours'  run  from  Stillwell.  Once  Raymond 
brought  the  news  to  Hilda  that  his  people  were  planning 
to  move  to  Chicago.  She  was  miserable  for  days  after. 

It  was  shortly  after  Raymond  and  Hilda  had  both  gradu- 


THE    LONG    AGO  37 

ated  from  the  public  school  that  the  Evert  house  across 
the  road,  to  which  Hilda  had  looked  up  all  her  life  as 
to  a  fountain  of  cheer,  remained  standing  one  afternoon 
stripped  and  hollow.  The  Everts  had  gone  to  Chicago. 
The  house  now  reminded  Hilda  of  a  corpse  from  which 
all  life  was  gone,  and  for  some  time  she  avoided  looking 
at  it. 

It  was  about  this  time,  too,  that  Hilda's  father  began 
going  to  the  doctor.  Two  years  passed.  Carl  Thorsen 
was  going  to  the  doctor  with  greater  frequency.  One  day 
he  had  a  long  consultation  with  his  wife,  the  upshot  of 
which  was  that  the  following  week  a  nephew  of  her's,  George 
Reynold,  came  to  live  with  them  and  took  much  of  the  busi 
ness  off  Carl  Thorsen's  hands. 

When  Hilda  saw  her  father  sitting  in  front  of  the  house 
one  afternoon  shortly  after  the  new  arrangement,  she  could 
not  speak  from  fright.  He  had  a  look  not  unlike  that  her 
mother  had  had  a  year  or  two  before  her  death.  And  he 
spoke  to  her  with  the  same  caressing  gentleness  with  which 
her  mother  was  wont  to  speak  to  her.  .  .  . 

Despite  her  sixteen  years  Hilda  could  not  get  up  courage 
to  talk  to  her  father  about  his  condition.  Her  face  would 
start  to  burn  with  shame  every  time  she  wanted  to  ask 
him  how  he  was.  Finally  he  broached  the  subject  him 
self. 

His  chest  was  troubling  him,  he  told  her,  but  a  good  rest 
would  set  him  right  again.  The  doctor  said  so. 

Carl  Thorsen  was  smiling  to  his  daughter  as  he  spoke, 
but^  Hilda  turned  and  fled  into  the  house.  She  ran  upstairs 
into  her  own  room,  where  she  lay  upon  the  bed  and  wept 


38  THE   ROAD 

for  a  long  time.  It  was  the  first  great  sorrow  she  had 
known.  .  .  . 

She  was  in  her  seventeenth  summer  when  her  father  late 
one  afternoon  asked  her  to  take  a  stroll  with  him.  Slowly 
he  labored  his  way  up  the  road  almost  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  beyond  the  house.  There  they  sat  down  under  a 
tree.  He  talked  with  her  briefly  about  her  mother  and 
himself.  They  had  come  from  Denmark  when  both  were 
quite  young.  He  had  worked  on  a  farm,  and  her  mother^ 
Selma  Cavling,  worked  for  the  family  adjoining  this  place. 
Later  he  went  to  the  city,  and  when  he  managed  to  estab 
lish  himself  in  the  sand  business  he  and  Selma  married. 

Of  her  mother's  family  he  knew  little.  She  was  early 
left  an  orphan.  She  had  older  brothers  in  Denmark,  but 
they  had  never  corresponded.  As  for  himself,  he  had  a 
brother  in  Chicago,  Martin  Thorsen.  He  produced  a  piece 
of  paper  upon  which  his  brother's  address  was  scribbled  and 
gave  it  to  Hilda.  His  brother,  he  explained,  had  been  a 
porter  in  a  hotel  several  years  earlier.  What  he  was  doing 
then  Carl  Thorsen  did  not  know.  But  he  advised  Hilda 
to  keep  the  address.  She  might  some  day  want  to  go  to 
her  uncle.  .  .  .  Blood  was  thicker  than  water. 

She  helped  him  get  home,  biting  her  lips  and  speak 
ing  not  at  all  till  they  reached  the  house.  Her  father 
went  to  bed  immediately;  the  walk  had  exhausted  him. 
Hilda,  having  cleared  the  table  from  the  supper  and 
washed  the  dishes,  went  up  to  her  room  and  opened  an  old 
family  trunk,  which  had  once  belonged  to  her  mother,  and 
in  which,  upon  her  mother's  death,  Carl  Thorsen  had  stuck 
away  the  things  his  wife  had  worn,  together  with  an  old 


THE    LONG    AGO  39 

album  and  some  letters,  his  and  his  wife's.  She  now  went 
over  these  things  one  by  one  and  they  assumed  a  new  sig 
nificance  for  her. 

He  died  in  October.  The  day  of  the  funeral  it  rained 
miserably,  and  it  was  expedited  with  great  haste.  She 
stayed  through  the  winter  at  home.  With  the  snow  lying 
upon  the  fields  several  feet  thick,  and  blizzards  rattling 
against  the  windows  she  had  not  the  courage  to  think  of 
Chicago.  But  when  spring  came,  the  snow  melted,  and  the 
elements  lost  their  sinister  and  menacing  aspect,  thoughts 
of  Chicago  began  weaving  themselves  in  her  mind. 

She  had  become  completely  estranged  from  her  step 
mother  during  the  winter  months.  Mrs.  Thorsen  was  quar 
reling  with  Hilda  less,  but  it  was  this  that  heightened  the 
feeling  of  estrangement  between  them.  They  were  nothing 
to  each  other  now.  Carl  Thorsen,  the  father  and  hus 
band,  who  was  the  link  between  them,  was  dead,  and  Hilda 
felt  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  leave. 

So  she  wrote  to  her  uncle  in  Chicago.  The  reply  came 
quickly.  Hilda  stayed  about  the  house  another  week  before 
taking  leave  of  it.  She  felt  that  once  she  left  the  place  she 
probably  would  never  see  it  again.  .  .  . 

She  left  Stillwell  early  on  a  Friday  morning  and  reached 
Chicago  at  noon.  The  following  Monday  she  had  without 
trouble  found  work  in  a  factory.  It  was  two  years  later 
that  she  and  her  childhood  playmate,  Raymond  Evert,  acci 
dentally  met.  .  .  . 

Just  before  she  fell  asleep  that  night  Hilda  went  back  to 
her  memories,  but  it  was  not  home  and  parents  she  was 


40  THE   ROAD 

thinking  of,  it  was  Pearl  Whitney  and  her  son  Walter. 
The  memory  of  Pearl  and  of  Walter  had  been  haunting 
Hilda  since  that  morning  in  September  when  the  first  ter 
rifying  suspicion  came  to  her  that  all  was  not  well  with 
her.  t  .  . 

Pearl  Whitney  had  occupied  a  forlorn  looking  cottage 
on  the  outskirts  of  Stillwell.  By  straining  her  memory 
Hilda  could  recall  the  funeral  of  Silas  Whitney,  Pearl's 
father.  In  the  years  that  followed  his  death  Silas  Whit- 
,  ney,  who  had  been  a  modest  carpenter  all  his  life,  had 
become  a  legendary  figure.  People  spoke  of  him  as  being 
a  very  upright  and  very  honorable  man.  The  "upright" 
and  "honorable"  were  stressed  every  time  his  name  was 
mentioned.  And  mentioned  his  name  was  frequently,  much 
more  frequently  than  that  of  any  other  departed  member 
of  the  immediate  neighborhood.  The  reason  for  this  fre 
quent  mention  was  his  daughter  Pearl  and  her  boy  Walter. 

Walter  was  an  illegitimate  child  and  was  the  black  sheep 
of  the  community.  Though  Silas  Whitney  had  lived  to 
a  good  old  age,  people  swore  that  it  was  disgrace  that 
killed  him,  the  disgrace  his  daughter  brought  upon  him. 
After  their  father's  death  his  other  children  had  moved 
from  Stillwell  one  by  one,  leaving  Pearl  and  Walter  to 
shift  as  best  they  might  by  themselves. 

And  shifting  had  not  been  easy  for  Pearl,  nor  for  her 
son.  Every  morning  when  the  men  were  going  to  the 
city  to  work,  the  lanky  figure  of  Pearl  Whitney  was  seen 
among  them.  She  too  was  going  to  work.  She  was  wash 
ing  and  scrubbing  for  a  living.  And  she  would  not  come 
home  much  ahead  of  the  men  either. 


THE    LONG    AGO  41 

In  the  many  years  which  Hilda  had  known  her  she  had 
never  seen  Pearl  look  any  one  straight  in  the  face:  her 
eyes  were  always  directed  away  from  the  person  she  was 
speaking  to.  Pearl  Whitney  was  still  on  this  side  of  thirty 
when  Hilda  was  quite  a  girl,  but  never  had  Hilda  seen  a 
smile  on  her  face.  Nor  had  she  ever  seen  her  speak  to 
a  man.  When  not  out  working  she  was  in  the  house.  .  i  . 
She  was  living  like  a  hermit. 

Pearl's  son  Walter,  on  the  other  hand,  was  seen  every 
where.  He  was  bright  in  school,  but  was  considered  bad 
and  irregular.  The  teachers  would  let  him  alone.  He 
could  do  almost  anything  no  other  boy  would  be  permit 
ted  to  do  and  there  would  be  no  one  to  say  a  word  to 
him. 

In  school  proper,  all  the  boys  would  play  with  Walter. 
They  were  afraid  to  turn  him  away,  for  he  was  a  fighter 
and  could  be  mean.  But  no  boy  would  invite  him  to  his 
house  to  play,  and  on  Saturdays  Walter  would  run  about 
the  streets  and  pick  up  company  among  older  boys. 

On  Sundays,  however,  when  the  neighborhood  black 
smith's  shop,  the  feed  store,  and  the  meat  market,  which 
were  his  principal  hangouts  on  days  when  there  was  no 
school,  were  closed,  Walter  was  a  forlorn  creature.  He 
would  run  about  the  streets  like  an  animal  that  had  strayed 
from  its  accustomed  haunts.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  memory  of  Walter  and  his  mother  that  had 
caused  Hilda  to  flee  to  New  York  as  soon  as  she  realized 
her  condition.  .  .  .  All  through  the  fevered,  sleepless  nights 
of  the  long  winter  Hilda  had  been  resolved  not  to  let  a 
fate  like  that  of  Pearl  Whitney  overtake  her.  She  had 


42  THE   ROAD 

determined  to  recover  from  her  condition  no  matter  at 
what  price,  to  reach  the  new  horizons  which  Raymond 
had  disclosed  before  her,  and  which  she  had  set  her  heart 
upon.  .  .  .  But  all  these  beautiful  dreams  were  snuffed 
out  now.  She  had  deliberately  snuffed  them  out.  Like 
Pearl  Whitney  she  was  now — a  mother.  Like  Pearl  she 
would  be  up  and  on  her  way  to  work  long  before  seven 
every  morning.  Like  Pearl  she  would  age  soon.  Her  face 
would  become  drawn.  She  would  become  listless  and  in 
different  to  life.  .  .  . 

When  Hilda  woke  in  the  morning  the  sun  was  streaming 
into  the  room  and  the  thought  of  Pearl  Whitney  was 
faint  and  watery.  There  was  no  comparison  between  them 
— could  be  no  comparison.  She  was  in  New  York.  .  .  . 
A  city  of  four  millions  was  not  to  be  compared  to  Still- 
well,  with  its  eighteen  thousand  inhabitants.  Work  she 
would  and  suffer  she  would,  but  the  badge  which  Pearl 
Whitney  had  worn  she  would  not  wear.  .  .  .  And  her  boy 
would  not  be  a  Walter — she  would  see  to  it.  ...  There 
were  thousands  of  orphans  in  New  York,  thousands  of 
widows.  .  .  .  No  one  should  ask  her  to  prove  the  death  of 
her  husband.  No  one  should  ask  her  son  to  do  so.  ... 

Her  fear  of  New  York  was  gone.  The  city  now  seemed 
to  her  like  a  kindly,  tolerant  mother,  who  was  spreading 
a  veil  over  her  past — a  veil  that  each  of  the  city's  five  mil 
lion  inhabitants  had  helped  weave.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER 
QUESTIONS 


THE  child  was  ill;  it  had  caught  cold,  cried  and  ate 
poorly.  The  doctor  came  and  examined  Hilda.  She  was 
well.  The  infant  did  not  get  the  cold  with  the  mother's 
milk,  and  the  physician  now  turned  from  one  kind  of  an 
examination  to  another. 

It  was  most  probable  that  the  child's  illness  was  acci 
dental,  Dr.  Norton  conceded.  But  there  were  instances 
on  record  where  mothers,  in  a  position  such  as  Hilda's, 
had  deliberately  courted  death  for  their  infants.  He  was 
therefore  searching  the  girl's  soul  with  his  looks  and 
questions. 

Hilda  caught  the  drift  of  the  examination  by  the  doctor 
and  nurses  and  a  wave  of  bitterness  arose  within  her.  Who 
gave  them  the  right  to  insult  her,  to  look  at  her  in  that  way? 
Speech,  short  and  vehement,  was  at  the  tip  of  her  tongue, 
but  she  mastered  herself.  Parallel  with  her  anger  went 
the  realization  of  her  condition.  .  .  .  She  was  alone  and 
friendless.  .  .  .  They  could  do  her  immense  harm,  if  she 
offended  them.  ...  It  was  not  the  only  insult  she  and 
her  child  would  have  to  take  from  people.  .  .  ^  She  swal 
lowed  hard  and  held  her  peace.  .  .  . 

The  child's  illness  had  focused  all  eyes  in  the  ward  on 

43 


44  THE   ROAD 

her.  She  became  an  object  of  sympathy  and  was  talked 
about  in  whispers. 

In  the  late  afternoon  the  infant  was  much  better  and 
Hilda  permitted  herself  to  relax  for  the  first  time  that  day. 
As  she  lay  in  the  gathering  dusk  various  thoughts  came 
to  her.  They  were  mostly  of  the  child — of  the  boy  he  would 
be.  ...  Her  musing  took  a  different  turn:  supposing  the 
child  were  to  die.  She  would  be  free  again.  .  .  .  Free.  .  .  . 

She  turned  from  these  reveries  as  one  turns  from  some 
thing  disagreeable.  The  infant  had  drunk  enough  of  bit 
terness  before  and  at  its  birth.  She  should  have  only  wel 
come  thoughts  for  it  now.  ...  As  if  to  punish  herself  for 
her  former  conduct  she  rushed  into  plans  for  the  future, 
for  her  future,  for  the  child's  future,  as  a  brave  bather 
plunges  into  icy  water.  .  .  . 

She  went  over  her  life  in  New  York.  .  .  .  She  could  not 
possibly  stay  longer  in  the  small  bedroom  she  had  been 
living  in  before  she  went  to  the  hospital.  .  .  .  She  would 
need  a  bigger  room  and  she  would  need  different  surround 
ings.  .  .  .  She  would  need  to  bathe  the  child.  ...  A  room 
ing  house,  the  kind  she  had  been  living  in,  would  hardly 
be  the  place  for  her  now.  .  .  . 

The  next  thing  she  would  need  would  be  a  woman  to 
leave  the  baby  with  while  she  was  away  at  work.  .  .  . 

She  caught  herself  wondering  at  the  readiness  with  which 
these  exact  wants  were  coming  to  her.  .  .  .  She  had  per 
sistently  refused  to  entertain  these  things  in  her  mind.  And 
yet  here  she  was  knowing  all  particulars  as  if  she  had 
thought  and  planned  them  out  long  beforehand.  .  .  .  Was 
it  possible  that  the  mother  instinct  had  been  at  work  within 


QUESTIONS  45 

her  stealthily,  without  her  being  aware  of  it,  and  in  spite 
of  her  seeming  hardness  and  determination  not  to  see  her 
self  a  mother? 

She  was  deciding  things  swiftly  and  firmly.  .  .  .  She 
would  give  the  child  away  to  board  during  the  day  for 
three  or  four  months.  They  were  not  taking  children  under 
that  age  in  nurseries.  Twas  lucky  summer  was  ahead  with 
brief  nights  and  long  mornings.  She  would  rise  early  and 
spend  much  time  with  the  infant  before  parting  with  him 
for  the  day.  .  .  . 

With  the  setting  of  the  sun  Hilda's  plans  became  vague 
and  uncertain  once  more.  .  .  .  She  was  weary  and  cheer 
less.  .  .  .  Difficulties  were  looming  up.  ...  It  was  hard 
to  be  alone  with  one's  thoughts  and  it  would  be  years 
before  she  would  have  some  one  to  share  them  with,  be 
fore  the  child  would  understand  her.  What  lonely  years 
they  would  be.  What  a  hazy,  uncertain  road  lay  before 
her.  .  .  . 

She  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"I  shouldn't  worry  so  much  about  the  child,"  her  neigh 
bor,  Lydia,  spoke  up.  "He's  all  right  and  will  surely  be 
well  in  the  morning." 

"Will  he?"  Hilda  queried.  She  was  glad  to  get  away 
from  herself. 

"Of  course  he  will,"  Lydia  said  heartily.  "I  was  just 
like  you  when  I  had  my  first  baby;  always  worried  stiff 
about  him.  But  he  came  out  all  right.  You  should  see 
him  now.  He  is  a  picture  of  health." 

Lydia  had  been  wanting  to  talk  to  Hilda  for  some  time. 


46  THE   ROAD 

The  latter  was  so  different  from  all  the  other  patients 
in  the  ward.  But  she  had  not  failed  to  notice  the  excite 
ment  under  which  Hilda  was  always  laboring,  and  she  kept 
back. 

Lydia  talked  about  her  child  and  Hilda  was  an  eager 
listener.  She  was  astonished  at  the  experience  the  young 
woman  beside  her  had.  Her  neighbor  could  not  have  been 
more  than  two  or  three  years  older  than  herself,  but  she 
talked  with  assurance.  Hilda  was  determined  to  learn  all 
she  could  from  the  young  woman. 

"You're  American  born,  aren't  you?"  Lydia  spoke  up 
unexpectedly. 

Hilda  said  she  had  been  born  in  America. 

"You  are  lucky!" 

"Why?"    Hilda  did  not  see  where  the  luck  came  in. 

"Oh,  it's  such  a  bother  being  born  in  Europe  and  then 
having  to  change  here."  Lydia  was  showing  two  rows  of 
pretty,  even  teeth  as  she  spoke.  "The  names  are  different 
and  the  customs  are  different.  There's  much  of  the  old 
to  throw  away  and  so  much  new  to  acquire,  while  if  one's 
born  here,  like  you,  all  this  is  unnecessary.  One  is  an 
American,  and  ended." 

Hilda  did  not  yet  see  where  the  bother  came  in. 

"You  have  no  idea,"  Lydia  explained,  "how  much  trou 
ble  there  is  in  a  name,  for  instance.  My  parents  brought 
me  from  Bohemia  when  I  was  four  years  old.  My  name 
in  the  old  world  was  Ludmila,  Ludmila  Oktavec.  They 
say  Ludmila  is  a  nice  name  in  Bohemian.  It  means  'dear 
to  people.'  But  in  America  the  name  implies  nothing.  It's 
merely  an  uncomfortable  mouthful.  I  rid  myself  early 


QUESTIONS  '47 

of  Ludmila  by  changing  it  to  Lydia.  But  it  was  not  so 
easy  to  change  the  last  name,  Oktavec.  'Twas  the  bane  of 
my  life  for  many  years.  A  name  like  that  makes  no  end 
of  trouble  with  foremen — they  always  mispronounce  it. 

"But  I  finally  changed  it,"  Lydia  added  with  a  squint, 
"and  I  have  a  real  American  name  now.  White  is  my  name 
now." 

"Is  your  husband  an  American?"  Hilda  asked,  recalling 
the  accent  of  the  distinguished  looking  man  who  had  come 
to  visit  her. 

"No,  he's  Bohemian,"  Lydia  replied.  "His  name  in  Bo 
hemian  is  Bily,  which  means  white.  I  saw  no  reason  why 
he  should  hang  on  to  the  Bohemian  Bily  and  made  him 
change  it  to  the  American  White." 

"Mrs.  White,"  she  added,  "is  not  a  name  to  start  half  the 
street  staring  at  you  when  you  are  called." 

Her  neighbor's  easy  chatter,  which  at  first  distracted 
Hilda,  began  to  depress  her.  She  was  wondering  whether 
the  young  woman  would  talk  so  freely  and  so  pleasantly 
with  her  if  she  knew  her  true  condition.  Lydia  noticed  the 
change  in  Hilda  and  also  grew  serious. 

"I  suppose  you  are  far  from  your  folks,"  she  remarked 
thoughtfully. 

"I  have  no  folks."    Hilda  spoke  barely  above  a  whisper. 

Both  were  silent  for  some  time.  Finally  her  curiosity 
got  the  best  of  Lydia. 

"Your  husband  must  be  away — he  hasn't  been  here  to 
see  you  yet." 

Hilda  did  not  answer  at  once.  When  she  finally  spoke 
there  was  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 


48  THE   ROAD 

"I  have  no  husband;  I'm  a  widow,"  she  said. 
Lydia  shrank  back.    She  regretted  her  question. 

The  aspect  of  the  room  was  changed.  Two  of  the  pa 
tients,  the  Irish  woman  and  Lydia,  were  sitting  up.  The 
Polish  young  woman  was  walking  about  the  ward  in  her 
flowered  kimono.  From  time  to  time,  when  she  thought 
no  one  saw  her,  she  would  draw  the  kimono  tightly  about 
her  body  and  gaze  at  her  shape,  filled  with  wonder  and  en 
joyment  at  her  return  to  normal  proportions. 

It  was  a  warm  day.  From  the  East  River  gusts  of 
wind  came,  leaving  in  their  wake  the  breath  of  spring  and 
an  unaccountable  longing.  .  .  .  The  head  nurse  was  unusu 
ally  pleasant  and  announced  to  the  patients  that  if  this 
weather  kept  up  the  roof  of  the  hospital  would  be  thrown 
open  to  them  in  a  day  or  two.  From  the  hospital  roof 
one  could  see  the  East  River  and  Long  Island. 

There  were  not  many  more  days  left  at  the  institution 
for  Hilda.  The  next  morning  she  would  sit  up  and  then 
she  would  have  two  or,  at  most,  three  days  more.  At  the 
end  of  that  period  she  would  have  to  pick  up  her  baby 
and  go.  ... 

The  roar  of  the  city  outside,  which  now  came  to  her 
oftener  and  with  ever  greater  distinctness,  instead  of  bring 
ing  her  closer  in  touch  with  reality  took  her  away  from 
it  more  and  more.  She  tried  to  think,  to  formulate  defi 
nite,  practical  plans,  but  instead  she  found  herself  visioning, 
dreaming.  .  .  * 

The  nurse  came  with  the  baby.  The  infant  was  hungry 
and  was  pulling  at  the  breast  briskly.  When  it  finished 


QUESTIONS  49 

it  lay  with  eyes  wide  open  as  if  contemplating  the  world 
and  things  about.  Its  cold  was  over  and  it  was  drinking 
in  life  with  every  breath. 

Hilda  was  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  youngster  for 
some  time.  She  was  awakened  out  of  her  reveries  by  Lydia. 
Her  neighbor  was  telling  her  about  her  oldest  boy,  now 
two  years.  She  was  drawing  a  comparison  between  her 
first  child  and  Hilda's. 

"My  boy  too  was  born  small,"  Lydia  was  saying.  "It 
was  the  shop,  I  guess,  that  made  it.  I  had  been  working 
after  my  marriage  up  to  two  months  of  my  confinement. 
My  husband  did  not  want  me  to  work,  but  I  insisted.  I 
was  making  good  money  in  the  shop.  I  would've  been  made 
forelady  if  I  had  stayed." 
"You  are  not  sorry,  are  you?" 

It  was  the  first  facetious  remark  Hilda  had  made  in 
more  than  nine  months,  and  she  was  reflecting  over  her 
own  lightmindedness.  But  the  phrase  had  been  uttered 
and  the  atmosphere  it  created  could  not  be  changed.  She 
and  Lydia  were  now  on  a  less  formal  basis.  The  latter 
was  talking  freely  and  was  making  a  friend  and  intimate 
of  Hilda. 

No,  she  was  not  sorry,  Lydia  was  saying,  and  went  on 
telling  Hilda  about  her  husband.  Hilda  had  seen  him. 
He  was  handsome,  but  that  was  not  all.  Ernest  White 
was  a  prince  of  a  man.  He  was  a  violinist,  an  accomplished 
musician.  He  had  studied  at  Vienna,  and  came  to  America 
to  make  his  fortune.  But  there  were  no  fortunes  waiting 
for  artists  who  had  no  connections.  He  went  to  work — 
at  anything  at  all.  .  .  .  In  the  meantime  they  met  and 


50  THE   ROAD 

fell  in  love.  After  they  married  they  had  to  have  a  steady 
income  and  Ernest  took  a  job  as  a  waiter  in  a  Broadway 
restaurant.  It  was  clean  work,  the  income  was  good,  and 
it  was  not  taxing  him  too  much  physically.  It  left  him 
time  for  his  violin,  for  he  hoped  to  get  back  to  his  music. 

"You  are  not  a  waitress,  are  you?"  Lydia  turned  on 
Hilda  abruptly.  The  latter  was  absorbed  in  thought. 

"No,"  Hilda  replied.  "But  what  made  you  think  I  was 
one?" 

"Most  girls  from  the  country,  American  girls,  I  mean," 
Lydia  explained,  "become  waitresses  in  New  York.  They 
like  it  better  than  working  in  a  shop  with  foreign  girls." 

"No,  I  have  never  worked  as  a  waitress,"  Hilda  repeated. 
"I  worked  in  a  factory." 

"What   trade?" 

"Knit  goods.    I  was  knitting  gloves." 

"Did  it  pay  well?" 

"I  was  getting  so  that  I  made  eight  and  sometimes  even 
ten  dollars  a  week." 

"That's  not  bad,"  her  neighbor  spoke  with  assurance. 
"But  I  was  making  eighteen  dollars  a  week  when  I  quit. 
Mine  was  the  white  goods  trade.  Shirtwaists  and  the  like. 
They  pay  girls  in  this  trade  something  awful,  but  I  was  do 
ing  all  the  fine  work,  lace  and  embroidery,  and  I  was  good 
at  it.  They  kept  me  at  making  samples  mostly,  and  that 
was  why  I  earned  so  well.  Are  you  going  back  to  the  knit 
goods  factory?" 

Hilda  was  silent.  She  was  pained  and  puzzled  by  the 
question.  Before  she  had  time  to  answer  Lydia  had  volun 
teered: 


QUESTIONS  51 

"If  I  were  you  I  shouldn't  go  back  to  a  factory  now.  I 
would  go  to  work  in  a  restaurant,  at  least  for  a  time.  You 
can  work  half  days,  you  know,  in  some  of  the  places. 
My  husband  could  tell  you  where  to  find  such  a  place. 
'Twould  be  good  for  the  baby.  You'd  not  be  away  from 
him  so  much,  at  least  in  the  first  few  months.  ,  .  ." 

Hilda  was  pondering  over  this  when  Lydia,  who  was  now 
walking  about,  came  up  to  her  bedside  and  began  to  examine 
the  baby  at  close  range. 

"He  has  a  regular  man's  face  on  him  and  he  does  not 
in  the  least  look  like  you,"  she  announced  very  positively. 

Hilda  felt  the  blood  rush  to  her  cheeks. 

"Yes,"  she  heaved  a  sigh,  "he  looks  like  his  father." 

A  half-forgotten  occurrence  of  her  childhood  suddenly 
came  back  to  her.  It  concerned  a  young  man,  a  neighbor 
of  theirs  who  sometimes  would  come  to  their  house  in  the 
evening.  The  young  man  was  but  a  few  months  married. 
One  morning  he  left  his  home  to  go  to  work  and  never 
returned  alive.  He  had  been  working  in  the  railroad  yards 
as  a  switchman  and  his  body  was  cut  in  two  by  a  train. 

Hilda  resurrected  the  memory  of  this  incident  and  clung 
to  it.  This  memory  she  determined  must  now  come  to 
her  rescue.  .  .  .  Time  and  place  must  be  changed,  details 
blurred.  .  .  .  Raymond  Evert  must  become  the  dead  switch 
man.  .  .  .  The  story  of  her  widowhood  must  be  made 
tangible,  circumstantial.  .  .  .  She  must  reinforce  her  lie 
in  order  to  be  allowed  to  live  decently  and  truthfully.  .  .  . 

When  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  her  neighbor,  as 
Hilda  had  anticipated,  brought  up  the  subject  of  the  child's 


52  THE   ROAD 

father  again,  she  briefly  narrated  to  her  the  switchman's 
death.  Lydia  did  not  press  her  for  details,  thinking  that 
she  was  too  much  moved  by  the  memory  of  the  tragedy, 
and  for  this  Hilda  was  thankful.  ...  It  was  hard  for  her 
to  lie  in  spite  of  all  the  justification  she  had  set  up  for 
the  lie.  .  .  . 

Lydia  was  gazing  at  her  with  sorrowful  eyes.  Hilda's 
plight  was  not  unfamiliar  to  her.  In  the  shop  where  she 
worked  there  had  been  several  married  women  who  were 
supporting  themselves  and  their  children.  Some  were  even 
supporting  their  sick  husbands.  She  was  about  to  tell  this 
to  the  girl,  but  checked  herself.  Why  dwell  on  such  things 
longer?  What  Hilda  needed  was  to  forget  things  as  quickly 
as  possible  and  spare  her  health.  She  would  need  all  her 
strength  to  face  the  future. 

"You  know,"  Lydia  said  after  a  prolonged  silence,  "the 
house  where  you  lived  in  East  Fifty-third  Street  is  hardly 
a  place  for  you  to  go  back  to  with  the  baby.  You  must 
find  something  with  a  family,  with  folks  who'd  not  merely 
know  of  your  existence  from  rent  day  to  rent  day,  but 
with  people  who'd  be  friendly,  who'd  take  an  interest  in 
you." 

Hilda  was  staring  in  front  of  her  vacantly.  That  was 
what  she  had  been  thinking  of.  But  where  was  she  to  get 
such  people.  She  knew  no  one,  had  no  friends  in  the 
city,  not  a  soul. 

"To-night,"  Lydia,  who  had  noted  Hilda's  silence,  con 
tinued,  "my  older  sister'll  be  here  to  see  me.  I'll  ask  her. 
She  may  know  of  some  folks  who'd  be  glad  to  take  you  in. 


QUESTIONS  53 

She's  much  older  than  I  and  she's  married  fifteen  years. 
She  knows  many  people." 

A  look  of  embarrassment  and  of  gratitude  came  into 
Hilda's  face. 

"You  are  good,"  she  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper  and  smiled 
at  Lydia  through  shining  eyes.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  V 
HILDA  BECOMES  A  STRANGER 

HILDA  was  the  last  to  fall  asleep  that  night.  .  .  .  She 
was  thinking  about  the  lie  she  had  told  her  friend,  Lydia. 
.  .  .  Ultimately  this  lie  would  be  communicated  to  her 
child  and  she  had  hoped  that  there  would  be  no  lies  be 
tween  herself  and  her  son.  .  .  .  'Twas  not  this  way  she  had 
imagined  telling  her  child  about  his  father — about  Ray 
mond.  .  .  . 

In  spite  of  all  her  efforts  not  to  think  of  the  past,  Ray 
mond  had  wedged  himself  into  her  thoughts  that  evening 
and  would  not  be  dislodged.  Close  to  midnight  she  found 
herself  going  over  the  memories  of  her  friendship  with 
him,  going  over  them  carefully,  minutely,  as  a  good  house 
wife  on  a  nice  spring  day  goes  over  her  house,  putting  things 
in  order. 

Her  life  in  Chicago  had  been  hard  from  the  first.  Martin 
Thorsen,  her  uncle,  was  not  the  kind  ol  a  man  she  ex 
pected  to  find  him.  He  was  not  patternea  after  her  father. 
His  wife  was  strongly  reminiscent  of  the  stepmother  she 
had  left  behind  in  Stillwell.  Thorsen  waf  the  janitor  of  an 
apartment  building  in  a  none  too  savory  neighborhood  on 
the  South  Side.  His  children,  her  cousins,  were  worlds  apart 
from  Hilda  in  taste  and  bringing  up.  She  lived  with  them 

54 


HILDA   BECOMES   A   STRANGER       55 

for  the  better  part  of  a  year,  then  she  moved  to  another 
section  of  the  city. 

But  things  were  not  better  here  either.  She  did  not  seem 
to  mix  with  the  city  girls.  In  the  knitting  factory  where 
she  worked  the  girls  were  mostly  foreign.  The  few  Ameri 
can  girls  that  worked  among  them  were  even  lower  down 
the  scale  than  the  foreigners  upon  whom  they  looked  with 
contempt. 

Hilda  had  gone  out  one  Saturday  night  with  such  an 
American  girl  and  found  herself  in  a  cheap  dance  hall.  The 
faces  of  the  girls  about  her,  no  less  than  of  the  men,  fright 
ened  her.  She  had  never  before  been  so  near  the  creatures 
and  the  life  she  vaguely  heard  and  knew  about.  .  .  .  There 
after  she  kept  much  to  herself.  Then — Raymond  came  into 
her  life.  .  .  . 

She  was*"  returning  from  work  in  the  dusk  of  an  October 
evening  when  something  distantly  familiar  flashed  before 
her  eyes.  Before  she  had  time  to  realize  who  it  was, 
Raymond  was  barring  the  way  for  her  and  was  holding  out 
both  his  hands.  .  .  .  He  took  her  to  the  door  of  the  rooming 
house  where  she  lived,  but  insisted  on  her  going  right  back 
with  him  to  a  restaurant  for  supper.  They  spent  the  evening 
together  talking  over  old  times. 

As  in  their  childhood  days,  so  now,  too,  Raymond  was 
the  leader,  he  was  her  lord  and  master.  She  did  as  he 
wished.  She  told  him  all  about  herself  that  evening, 
about  her  father's  death,  her  stepmother,  her  going  to  the 
city,  and  her  life  up  to  the  moment  he  met  her.  He  told 
his  story.  His  father  was  rich  and  was  getting  richer 
every  day.  Henry  Evert  was  a  successful  contractor.  His 


56  THE   ROAD 

brothers  were  in  business  with  his  father;  they  were  mar 
ried.  Him,  his  father  had  singled  out  for  a  profession. 
He  was  going  to  the  University.  He  was  to  be  a  lawyer. 

After  she  had  seen  Raymond  three  or  four  times  and 
every  reminiscence  of  their  childhood  had  been  gone  over, 
Hilda  expected  him  to  drop  her,  to  go  his  way.  .  .  .  She 
thought  it  quite  natural — there  was  such  a  difference  be 
tween  them.  .  .  .  But  Raymond  kept  up  his  friendship.  In 
fact,  he  was  devoting  himself  to  her  more  and  more.  He 
took  her  to  the  theater  and  went  out  walking  with  her 
Sundays.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  little  money  left  her  from  her  father.  She 
invested  twenty-five  dollars  of  it  in  clothes  for  the  street, 
for  outings,  and  she  was  rewarded  for  it  by  Raymond's 
enthusiastic  admiration  of  her  taste.  She  looked  so  won 
derful  in  simple  things,  he  had  said.  .  .  . 

On  several  occasions  he  asked  permission  to  call  for  her 
at  the  boarding  house,  but  she  pleadingly  kept  him  away 
all  through  the  winter  months.  Her  room  was  tiny  and 
she  did  not  wish  Raymond  to  see  it.  Moreover,  it  was  not 
heated  and  she  often  spent  the  hours  between  supper  and 
bedtime  in  her  street  clothes,  the  heat  from  the  gas  jet 
being  insufficient  for  more  than  merely  taking  the  edge  off 
the  cold.  The  walls  of  the  room  were  bare,  the  washstand 
improvised.  The  only  thing  that  looked  decent  was  the 
bed.  Hilda  had  bought  her  own  bedspread  and  a  pillow 
cover  to  make  it  look  so. 

One  Sunday  in  March  Raymond  surprised  her.    He  came 
down  to  the  boarding  house  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  fore 
noon  instead  of  waiting  till  two-thirty  and  meeting  her  at 


HILDA   BECOMES   A  STRANGER        57 

the  place  they  had  agreed  on.  The  day  was  like  summer 
and  he  was  restless.  He  did  not  wish  to  waste  the  warm 
morning  hours.  He  wanted  Hilda  to  go  with  him  at  once 
into  the  fields  and  beyond  the  city,  far,  far  away.  ...  He 
found  her  dressed  and  expectant.  She  was  both  confused 
and  pleased  that  he  came.  .  .  .  She  had  been  sitting  by 
the  open  window,  gazing  upon  the  children  playing  in  the 
street  below  and  had  been  thinking  of  spring  and  the  coun 
try.  .  .  . 

She  offered  him  the  only  chair  she  had  in  the  room 
and  herself  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Raymond  found 
the  room  reminiscent.  In  Stillwell  he  had  slept  in  such  a 
room.  But  in  Stillwell  they  had  a  large  kitchen  and  the 
stove  was  always  going.  There  was  another  big  stove  in 
the  living  room  and  that  too  was  going.  .  .  .  He  thought 
Hilda  must  miss  the  stove,  the  kitchen,  the  living  room.  .  .  . 
He  fell  to  talking  about  Stillwell.  ...  He  wondered  how 
things  were  looking  there  now.  The  snow  must  be  melting. 
They  would  begin  to  plow  soon.  .  .  . 

A  dreamy  sadness  came  into  Hilda's  face  as  she  listened 
to  him.  She  too  seemed  to  be  transported  to  Stillwell.  .  .  . 
She  seemed  to  be  seeing  something. 

"If  some  one  could  only  paint  you  now,"  Raymond  said 
after  a  silence. 

She  smiled,  but  the  smile  was  not  taking  the  sadness  out 
of  her  eyes.  Raymond  was  gazing  at  her.  She  averted 
her  face. 

"What  is  it,  Hilda?"  he  asked,  leaning  over  slightly  to 
wards  her  and  taking  her  hand  in  his. 

The  girl  attempted  to  free  her  hand,  but  he  had  seen  tears 


58  THE   ROAD 

in  her  eyes.  ...  In  an  instant  his  arms  had  wound  them 
selves  about  her  waist,  her  shoulders.  .  .  . 

"You  know,"  Raymond  had  said  to  her  several  months 
later,  "I'm  taking  altogether  too  much  of  your  time.  It's 
a  shame  to  waste  it.  You  ought  to  put  in  some  of  your 
evenings  in  school.  A  little  stenography  and  typewriting 
would  make  a  big  difference  in  you.  It  would  change  your 
whole  life  for  you.  'T would  take  you  out  of  the  factory 
and  put  you  into  an  office." 

It  was  a  June  evening  and  they  were  sitting  in  Jackson 
Park.  Raymond  had  his  arm  about  Hilda's  shoulders.  He 
had  made  this  little  speech  between  caresses.  She  had  lis 
tened  to  him  with  immense  gratitude.  ...  It  was  good 
to  have  some  one  talk  to  her  like  a  relation — about  school, 
stenography,  office  work.  .  .  .  She  had  been  dreaming  of 
office  work  ever  since  she  was  a  little  girl.  .  .  . 

After  Raymond  had  left  her  on  the  steps  of  the  board 
ing  house  Hilda  had  lain  awake  half  the  night.  She  was 
recalling  his  words,  his  gaze,  and  her  heart  was  beating 
fast.  .  .  .  She  seemed  to  be  standing  on  the  threshold  of 
a  new  life,  the  life  she  had  vaguely  been  yearning  for.  .  .  . 
She  longed  for  the  night  to  pass,  for  the  following  evening, 
for  Raymond.  .  .  .  She  wanted  to  hear  the  words  school 
and  office  from  his  lips  again.  .  .  .  She  fell  asleep  in  tears. 
She  woke  smiling.  .  .  . 

In  September,  when  he  was  to  resume  his  work  at  the 
University,  Hilda  was  to  enter  a  business  college.  Raymond 
had  planned  it  this  way  in  order  not  to  lose  any  of  the 
summer  evenings.  These  they  were  to  spend  together. 


HILDA   BECOMES   A  STRANGER       59 

Hilda  had  been  worrying  about  money  matters.  She  had 
sixty  dollars  in  the  bank.  She  would  need  perhaps  a  hun 
dred  for  tuition  and  books.  She  could  manage  things  if 
they  did  not  require  from  her  all  of  the  money  in  ad 
vance.  .  .  .  Several  times  she  had  meant  to  ask  Raymond  to 
find  out  about  this,  but  she  hesitated.  Raymond  knew  how 
much  she  was  earning,  but  his  sense  of  values  was  vague 
and  he  failed  to  realize  fully  the  penny  by  penny  existence 
which  she  was  leading.  Hilda  hated  to  initiate  him  into  it. 

They  were  in  the  country  one  Sunday  afternoon  in  July. 
The  day  was  sultry.  In  the  distance  lay  a  wood  and  they 
were  heading  for  it. 

They  finally  reached  it,  found  a  secluded  spot  and  sat 
down.  Hilda  was  tired  from  the  heat  and  the  walk  and 
was  reclining  speechlessly.  Raymond  pulled  out  a  small 
volume  of  Keats  from  his  pocket,  but  did  not  open  it.  He 
was  gazing  at  the  girl  with  eager,  longing  eyes. 

He  wanted  to  say  something  tender  to  her  and  began 
to  speak  of  school.  He  had  noted  that  Hilda's  eyes  ran 
over  with  mute  dreaminess  every  time  the  subject  of  study 
ing,  her  studying,  was  brought  up  by  him. 

He  was  elaborating  the  plans  for  her  education,  going 
into  details,  specifying.  He  had  been  to  several  business 
colleges,  had  made  inquiries.  .  .  . 

Hilda  felt  the  last  barrier  disappearing  between  her  and 
Raymond.  ...  He  was  talking  to  her  like  a  relation,  like 
a  brother,  a  father.  .  .  .  She  would  not  be  ashamed  before 
him  any  longer. 

She  asked  him  about  the  tuition  in  these  colleges.  Had 
he  found  out  about  that?  She  told  him  how  much  money 


6o  THE   ROAD 

she  had.  Also  there  was  a  possibility  of  her  getting  a  raise 
at  the  factory.  If — 

But  Raymond  did  not  let  her  finish.  He  locked  her  In 
his  arms  and  was  crushing  her  with  his  embraces.  .  .  .  The 
question  of  money  was  not  to  worry  her:  he  would  pay  her 
tuition.  ...  Of  course  he  would.  .  .  .  Did  she  think  oth 
erwise?  .  .  .  No,  she  should  not  be  ashamed  to  take  money 
from  him.  .  .  .  They  were  not  strangers.  .  .  .  They  never 
would  be  strangers.  .  .  .  She  would  be  his,  must  be  his, 
always — always.  .  .  . 

They  were  in  each  other's  arms  and  he  was  sealing  their 
union  with  intense,  passionate  kisses.  She  was  reciprocat 
ing  them  feebly.  .  .  .  She  had  lost  track  of  time.  .  .  .  She 
felt  that  it  must  be  late.  .  .  .  She  was  a  little  afraid.  .  .  . 
He  was  mumbling  about  her  being  his  wife.  .  .  .  Was  call 
ing  her  his  wife.  .  .  .  She  was  limp.  ...  He  had  not  kissed 
her  that  way  before.  .  .  .  She  finally  aroused  herself.  .  .  . 
She  was  speaking.  .  .  .  Her  tongue  was  heavy,  but  she  was 
speaking.  .  .  .  There  were  things  to  be  considered.  ...  He 
must  consider.  ...  It  would  be  no  easy  matter.  .  .  .  His 
father.  .  .  .  Her  father.  .  .  .  They  never  got  on.  ... 
Were  never  friends.  .  .  .  Her  breath  was  giving  way  under 
the  tenderness  of  his  caresses.  .  .  .  She  was  unnerved, 
drooping.  ...  A  helplessness  was  over  her.  .  .  . 

She  roused  herself  again.  .  .  .  She  was  frightened.  .  .  . 
She  was  warning  Raymond.  .  .  .  He  looked  at  her  with 
tousled  hair  and  big,  glassy  eyes.  ...  He  was  making  prom 
ises.  ...  He  would  not  forget  himself.  .  .  . 

In  the  next  breath  his  lips  were  searching  her  throat. 
>  .  .  His  face  was  digging  itself  into  her  breasts — her 


HILDA   BECOMES   A  STRANGER       61 

body.  .  .  .  Everything  about  her  had  become  nebulous  .  .  . 
dreamlike.  .  .  .  Through  the  tree  tops  bits  of  sky  were  visi 
ble.  .  .  .  Was  it  reality  or  was  she  dreaming.  ...  All  life 
was  a  dream.  .  .  .  Raymond  was  a  dream.  .  .  .  She  was 
dreaming  a  painful  sweet  dream.  .  .  . 


Hilda  shook  off  her  reveries  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep. 
Every  one  in  the  ward  was  sleeping.  Alongside  of  her  she 
could  hear  Lydia's  measured  breathing.  She  wrapped  the 
blanket  about  herself  resolutely,  shut  her  eyes — and  was 
off  again  with  her  memories  of  Chicago.  .  .  . 

She  recalled  her  last  meeting  with  Raymond.  He  stag 
gered  when  she  told  him  she  was  in  trouble.  .  .  .  His  talk 
was  incoherent.  .  .  .  He  left  her  early.  .  .  .  They  were  to 
meet  the  following  evening  to  devise  ways,  to  plan.  .  .  . 

But  she  never  saw  him  again.  .  .  . 

It  was  after  some  weeks  that  she  plucked  up  courage  and 
sought  out  the  Evert  home.  She  came  there  after  supper. 
Darkness  was  falling.  Not  Raymond,  but  his  father  came 
to  meet  her  at  the  door.  She  had  not  seen  Henry  Evert 
since  the  latter  had  ceased  to  be  their  neighbor  at  Still- 
well.  She  was  trying  to  force  a  smile  on  her  face,  a  neigh 
borly  greeting.  But  Mr.  Evert  made  short  work  of  her 
smile,  of  her  greeting.  ...  He  drove  her  from  the 
house.  .  .  . 

His  words  burned  in  her  brain  whenever  she  recalled  them. 
A  loose,  designing  girl,  he  had  called  her,  and  warned  her 
to  leave  his  son  and  them  alone.  He  would  not  permit 
his  boy  to  be  victimized  by  her.  He  was  not  surprised 


62  THE   ROAD 

at  her  conduct,  though  he  had  hoped  for  something  bet 
ter.  .  .  Her  father,  too,  was  shiftless.  He,  Evert,  already 
had  a  lawyer  on  the  job,  and  detectives.  They  knew  all 
about  her  life  in  Chicago.  .  .  .  They  knew  about  her  uncle 
— where  he  lived,  and  the  character  of  his  children,  his 
daughters.  .  .  If  she  meant  to  blackmail  his  boy  she  would 
find  herself  running  into  more  trouble  than  she  was  looking 
for.  .  .  .  However,  she  could  do  as  she  liked:  All  he 
wanted  was  for  her  to  leave  his  house  and  never  to  show 
her  face  there  again.  .  .  .  He  would  hear  nothing.  He 
wanted  nothing  to  do  with  her.  .  .  . 

Gulping  down  her  tears,  she  was  running  from  the  Evert 
residence  when  she  heard  hasty,  nervous  steps  behind  her, 
as  of  some  one  following  her.  Could  it  possibly  be  Ray 
mond  coming  after  her?  She  turned  about  quickly  and 
was  face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Evert. 

Raymond's  mother  had  grown  gray  in  the  years  Hilda 
had  not  seen  her.  Mrs.  Evert  was  weeping  now. 

"Don't  stop/'  she  whispered  to  the  girl  through  her  sobs, 
"let's  walk  right  on." 

"Here!"  Mrs.  Evert  had  put  something  in  her  hand 
and  was  closing  the  girl's  fingers  about  it.  "Take  this,  and 
when  you  need  more  come  to  me.  Come  in  the  forenoon 
when  he  is  not  home.  And  now  run  and  God  bless  you." 

Mrs.  Evert  turned  off  at  the  corner  and  left  Hilda  stand 
ing  there  perplexed.  She  had  not  spoken  a  word  to  Ray 
mond's  mother.  She  had  had  no  chance;  she  was  over 
whelmed. 

When  she  was  in  her  room  again  Hilda  unrolled  the 
little  wad  which  Mrs.  Evert  had  given  her.  There  was  a 


HILDA  BECOMES   A  STRANGER       63 

hundred  and  forty-six  dollars  in  it — all  apparently  of  Mrs. 
E vert's  savings  from  her  household  expenses. 

It  was  this  money  that  enabled  her  to  go  to  New  York. 
New  York.  .  .  .  She  was  coming  back  to  realities.  Her 
thoughts  became  disjointed.  She  felt  dead  tired,  closed  her 
eyes,  and  was  asleep.  .  .  . 

It  rained  that  afternoon.  It  had  been  raining  since  early 
morning  without  a  stop.  The  balmy  spring  weather  of  the 
day  before  was  gone  and  the  patients  in  the  ward  were 
restless.  Some  were  thinking  of  their  homes  and  children; 
others  worried  about  their  infants,  one  or  two  of  whom  had 
caught  colds. 

Several  times  that  afternoon  the  head  nurse  had  passed 
Hilda.  Miss  Hulbert  wished  to  speak  to  her,  but  was 
held  back  by  the  girl's  steadfast  reserve.  About  four  o'clock 
Hilda,  after  a  short  walk  about  the  room,  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  her  bed  to  rest  and  Miss  Hulbert  came  over. 

Was  she  quite  well,  the  head  nurse  was  asking.  There 
was  something  in  her  voice,  in  the  way  she  had  spoken, 
that  was  inviting  confidence.  Hilda  sensed  something  else, 
too,  in  her  question.  Miss  Hulbert  seemed  to  be  waiting 
for  a  word  of  complaint  from  her.  Such  complaint  would 
most  likely  result  in  the  nurse  getting  the  hospital  authori 
ties  to  extend  her,  Hilda's,  stay  at  the  institution  for  an 
other  five  days.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  second  day  Hilda  had  been  up  and  walking 
about.  Her  feet  felt  as  if  they  were  borrowed.  Her  head 
was  weak  and  dizzy.  .  .  .  She  and  the  child  had  much  to 
gain  from  another  five  days  in  the  hospital. 


64  THE   ROAD 

But  she  decided  to  go  on  with  her  plans  and  to  leave 
the  following  afternoon.  Her  answers  to  Miss  Hulbert's 
questions  were  unequivocal,  affirmative.  They  left  no  room 
for  doubt.  Hilda  would  be  out  of  the  institution  at  the 
end  of  the  ten  days  for  which  she  had  paid — not  a  minute 
later. 

Lydia  had  already  gone  home.  She  had  gone  the  day 
before,  and  her  sister,  Mrs.  Novak,  had  sent  up  word 
that  she  had  found  a  suitable  room  for  Hilda  with  a  woman 
living  in  the  same  block  with  her.  Mrs.  Novak,  too,  would 
be  at  the  hospital  waiting  for  Hilda  when  she  got  out,  to 
take  her  and  her  baby  to  this  new  place.  Lydia's  sister 
was  indeed  going  out  of  her  way  for  her  and  Hilda  felt 
that  it  was  best  not  to  postpone  things,  but  to  take  advan 
tage  of  the  kindness  of  these  friendly  people.  .  .  .  Besides, 
she  was  eager  to  get  to  her  new  surroundings,  whatever  they 
might  prove.  The  hospital  was  of  the  past,  the  past  from 
which  she  was  now  straining  every  nerve  to  escape,  in  body, 
in  mind.  .  .  . 

When  the  nurse  had  left  Hilda  strolled  out  of  the  ward 
and  into  the  hall.  She  passed  other  wards.  Wherever  she 
turned  there  were  women  of  foreign  birth,  speaking  in  for 
eign  languages  which  she  did  not  understand.  The  Swann 
Maternity  was  located  in  the  heart  of  one  of  New  York's 
most  cosmopolitan  districts. 

She  looked  into  the  faces  of  some  of  these  women.  Most 
of  them  were  at  ease,  cheerful.  .  .  .  Apparently  every  one 
of  them  knew  where  she  was  going,  had  friends,  family,  a 
nook  which  she  could  call  her  own.  .  .  .  They  had  come 
across  the  ocean  and  were  at  home  in  America,  in  its  great 


HILDA  BECOMES   A  STRANGER       65 

metropolis;  she  was  born  here  and  was  a  stranger  in  it.  ... 
A  sense  of  insecurity  numbed  her  heart.  She  felt  chilled 
and  went  back  to  her  room  and  into  bed.  She  lay  a  long 
time  in  a  daze.  They  brought  her  her  supper  and  she  ate 
it  mechanically.  About  seven  o'clock  the  nurse  handed  her 
a  bundle.  For  an  instant  Hilda  could  not  think  what  that 
bundle  might  be.  Then  she  recalled.  She  had  given  Lydia 
money  with  which  to  buy  clothes  for  her  infant.  The  bundle 
contained  baby  clothes.  «  .  -. 

•  •**'••* 

She  was  up  early  the  following  morning  and  dressed 
in  her  street  clothes.  She  walked  about  the  room  and  in 
the  hall,  hoping  that  the  exercise  would  strengthen  her  and 
make  her  head  more  steady.  .  .  .  After  dinner  she  fed  the 
baby  and  then  began  dressing  it.  ...  She  was  scarcely  fin 
ished  when  the  nurse  brought  word  that  Mrs.  Novak  was 
downstairs  waiting  for  her.  Hilda  was  glad  of  the  rush. 
She  nodded  a  hasty  good-by  to  the  patients  and  hurriedly 
followed  the  nurse,  who  was  carrying  her  baby  downstairs. 
It  was  a  short  ride  by  street  car  to  where  Mrs.  Novak  was 
taking  her.  They  got  out  at  East  Seventy-fifth  street, 
walked  down  a  block  and  a  half  towards  the  river  and 
finally  Mrs.  Novak  entered  the  hallway  of  a  large  tene 
ment.  They  climbed  slowly  up  two  flights  of  stairs.  A  door 
stood  wide  open.  They  were  awaited ;  they  were  home.  .  .  . 

The  landlady — Mrs.  Vasek  was  her  name — was  a  Bo 
hemian  woman  of  forty-six  or  seven,  a  mother  of  a  half- 
dozen  children.  She  was  of  medium  height,  well  built  and 
looked  trim  despite  the  fact  that  she  wore  no  corset.  Mrs. 
Vasek  understood  many  of  the  things  said  to  her  in  Eng- 


66  THE   ROAD 

lish,  but  whether  she  understood  them  or  not,  she  always 
smiled  when  some  one  spoke  to  her  in  that  language  instead 
of  her  native  Bohemian.  She  smiled  when  Hilda  greeted 
her  and  gave  a  vigorous  shake  of  the  head  in  acknowledg 
ment  of  the  greeting.  Directly  Hilda  was  in  the  house  Mrs. 
Vasek  began  busying  herself  with  the  girl  and  her  baby 
as  if  the  latter  were  a  relation  of  her's  who  had  come  for 
a  visit.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Vasek  had  a  five-room  flat,  the  rooms  running 
"railroad"  fashion,  from  the  street  to  the  yard.  The  very 
last  room  was  the  kitchen  and  next  to  it  was  a  bedroom. 
It  was  considered  the  best  bedroom  in  the  house.  A  crib 
had  been  put  there  for  the  child  and  Hilda  was  given  this 
room. 

Mrs.  Novak  excused  herself.  Her  children  would  be  back 
from  school  any  minute  now.  She  had  to  run  home,  but 
she  would  come  in  again  after  supper.  Mrs.  Vasek,  too, 
had  to  go  down  into  the  street  for  something. 

Hilda  undid  the  child  and  laid  it  down  in  the  crib.  The 
ride  in  the  car  and  the  change  in  his  surroundings  had  not 
affected  the  infant.  It  was  sleeping  soundly. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  her  hand  on 
the  crib,  thinking,  when  Mrs.  Vasek  looked  in  again.  In 
a  strange  mixture  of  English  and  Bohemian,  assisted  by 
kindly  motions  of  her  round,  matronly  arms,  Mrs.  Vasek 
was  explaining  to  Hilda  that  the  bedroom  was  only  to  sleep 
in,  and  that  she  was  otherwise  to  make  herself  at  home 
in  the  kitchen,  in  the  parlor,  everywhere.  She  was  show 
ing  her  about  the  flat.  In  the  parlor  she  stopped  in  front 
.of  an  enlarged  photograph  of  a  boy  in  a  sailor's  uniform. 


HILDA  BECOMES   A  STRANGER       67 

It  was  her  son.  He  was  in  the  navy.  All  about  this  photo 
graph  the  wall  was  studded  with  snapshots,  postcards,  pic 
tures  which  the  lad  had  sent  his  parents  from  every  city 
he  had  visited.  Mrs.  Vasek,  in  pointing  out  her  son's  pic 
ture,  felt  as  if  the  boy  in  American  uniform  was  a  link 
between  herself  and  her  American  roomer.  Hilda  experi 
enced  a  similar  feeling. 

When  she  was  alone  Hilda  stepped  up  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  upon  the  street  below.  It  teemed  with 
children,  with  people — all  sorts  of  people — Bohemians,  Jews, 
Italians.  They  were  excited,  shouting,  gesticulating.  Moth 
ers  were  calling  down  to  their  children  from  the  third 
and  fourth  story.  Children  were  looking  up  and  shouting 
indistinguishable  answers.  She  was  thinking.  .  .  .  Who 
was  she?  What  was  she  doing  there  among  these  people? 
It  seemed  unbelievable  that  she  was  herself — that  she  was 
the  Hilda  she  had  once  been;  the  Hilda  of  Stillwell,  of 
Chicago,  the  Hilda  that  had  had  other  visions.  .  .  . 

She  wondered  how  long  she  and  her  child  would  stay  in 
these  surroundings  and  how  it  would  all  work  out.  .  .  . 
How  soon  would  she  come  back?  Come  back  to  what? 

Above  these  thoughts  rose  a  feeling  of  gratitude.  She 
was  thankful  to  Lydia  and  to  Mrs.  Novak;  thankful  to 
the  woman  in  the  house.  They  were  good  people.  What 
would  she  have  done  without  them?  Where  would  she 
have  gone  to?  At  the  memory  of  the  rooming  house  from 
which  she  had  gone  to  the  hospital  a  shudder  ran  through 
her. 

She  slipped  back  into  the  bedroom  and  laid  down  to  rest. 
On  another  occasion,  perhaps  only  a  day  or  two  earlier, 


68  J HE  ROAD 

she  would  have  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  and  wept. 
Now  she  was  not  so  easily  mastered  by  her  tears.  .  .  .  She 
was  thinking  about  that.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  was  no  longer  a 
young  girl — she  was  a  woman.  .  .  .  She  had  a  stake  in  the 
world — a  family.  She  was  the  mother  of  this  family.  .  .  , 
Mother.  .  .  .  Father.  .  .  . 

She  slept  an  hour,  and  when  she  woke  there  were  light 
and  voices  in  the  house.  She  distinguished  something  fa 
miliar  among  the  voices.  It  was  her  child.  The  infant  was 
crying  and  Mrs.  Vasek  was  holding  it  against  her  breast. 
It  was  time  to  feed  the  child. 

Mrs.  Vasek's  two  little  girls,  eight  and  ten  years  old, 
entered  the  room.  They  were  gazing  at  the  little  head  that 
clung  to  Hilda's  breast,  and  went  into  gurgles  of  delight. 
Hilda  smiled  at  them  and  they  were  friends. 

After  some  little  time  Mrs.  Vasek,  who  had  been  busying 
herself  in  the  kitchen,  came  in  with  a  large  plate  of  soup. 
It  was  still  a  good  hour  till  supper,  she  explained  in  meager 
English,  but  with  abundant  smiles.  At  the  smell  of  food 
Hilda  realized  how  hungry  she  was.  She  was  grateful  and 
she  was  ashamed.  .  .  .  She  ate  with  averted  face,  swallow 
ing  tears  with  her  soup.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VI 
RAYMOND  MAKES  A  PILGRIMAGE 

CHICAGO  was  sitting  up  late  that  Saturday  night.  For 
three  days  in  succession  the  city  had  been  in  the  grip  of 
a  torrid  wave,  the  first  hot  spell  of  the  summer. 

The  weather  man  had  not  made  any  promises  for  a  cool 
Sunday,  but  around  nine  o'clock  that  evening  the  huge  wa 
ters  of  Lake  Michigan,  which  had  lain  inert  and  placid, 
began  to  stir.  A  breeze  arose  and  Chicago  was  sitting  up 
and  drinking  it  in.  It  was  sitting  up  on  the  roofs  and 
doorsteps  of  its  tenements  in  the  slums,  and  on  the  verandas 
of  its  residences  on  the  avenues  and  boulevards. 

Henry  Evert  and  his  wife  were  sitting  on  the  veranda  of 
their  home  on  Independence  Boulevard.  They  were  all 
alone  that  evening  and  Mr.  Evert  had  slunk  back  to  his 
old  ways  and  was  sitting  in  an  undershirt  only. 

He  was  twirling  a  cigar  between  his  fingers.  The  doctor 
had  ordered  him  to  smoke  as  little  as  possible,  but  it  was 
hard  to  break  the  habit  of  a  lifetime.  They  were  talking 
of  Raymond. 

"Where  did  he  go  this  evening?"  Mr.  Evert  was  asking, 

"He  was  going  to  the  settlement  on  the  south  side,  he 
said,"  Mrs.  Evert  answered  her  husband. 

"I  'don't  like  the  people  he's  getting  in  with."  Mr. 

69 


fjo  THE   ROAD 

Evert  spoke  in  a  slightly  raised  voice.  "What  interest  is 
there  for  him  to  go  to  settlements;  there  are  plenty  of 
women  looking  after  the  poor." 

His  wife  was  silent.  She  was  hoping  that  her  husband 
would  forget  Raymond  and  go  calmly  to  bed.  Mr.  Evert 
had  not  been  well  that  day. 

The  Everts  were  rounding  out  their  tenth  year  in  Chi 
cago.  They  had  come  to  the  metropolis  in  the  prime  of  life. 
These  ten  years,  in  spite  of  their  prosperity,  had  greatly 
aged  them.  .  .  .  Especially  the  last  year.  .  .  t 

In  the  nine  months  which  had  elapsed  since  the  day  he 
had  driven  Hilda  Thorsen  from  his  house  a  great  change 
had  come  over  Henry  Evert  and  his  wife.  Shortly  before 
Christmas  their  second  daughter,  Eleanor,  had  married  and 
had  gone  to  Milwaukee  to  live.  She  was  the  fourth  of 
their  children  to  marry  and  they  were  now  left  alone  with 
Raymond.  But  between  the  three,  and  especially  between 
father  and  son,  there  was  no  peace.  .  .  .  They  had  drifted 
apart.  Raymond  was  not  living  up  to  his  father's  expecta 
tion.  The  boy's  "fool  escapade"  with  Hilda  repelled  Mr. 
Evert  in  the  first  place.  And  he  was  becoming  daily  more 
embittered  by  his  son's  subsequent  conduct  and  attitude 
toward  things.  He  had  planned  for  Raymond  to  become 
a  great  lawyer,  a  congressman  some  day.  ...  He  had  ambi 
tions  for  the  boy  and  he  had  money  to  back  these  ambitions. 
,  .  .  But  Raymond  was  beginning  to  look  more  and  more 
like  a  school  teacher.  ...  He  had  not  the  matter-of-factness 
of  his  brothers.  He  was  not  business-like.  He  seemed  to  be 
walking  in  a  dream.  .  .  . 

To  the  worries  about  his  son  there  was  added  early  in 


RAYMOND'S   PILGRIMAGE         ;r 

the  spring  another  worry.  It  was  about  his,  Mr.  Evert's, 
health. 

In  the  latter  part  of  March  he  was  taken  ill  with  a 
cold.  He  was  in  bed  ten  days,  which  was  longer  than 
usual.  When  he  got  out  of  bed  he  was  not  mending  as 
rapidly  as  he  should.  The  family  physician  came  daily  and 
prescribed  tonics,  but  Henry  Evert  was  not  coming  to. 

One  day  the  physician  suggested  a  consultation.  He 
called  up  a  specialist. 

In  the  office  of  the  specialist  Mr.  Evert  felt  as  if  he 
had  suddenly  become  a  watch  and  the  doctor  was  a  watch 
maker  and  was  taking  him  apart.  He  made  him  undress 
from  head  to  foot,  pounded  his  chest,  listened  in  between 
his  ribs,  looked  into  his  eyes  with  an  electric  light.  But 
it  was  on  the  blood  pressure  the  physician  lingered 
most.  .  .  . 

Henry  Evert  had  never  known  that  there  was  such  a 
thing  as  blood  pressure,  and  while  he  was  dressing  the  phy 
sician  explained  it  to  him.  He  talked  to  him  about  the 
heart  and  kidneys,  their  functions.  His  heart  and  kidneys 
were  not  functioning  well.  .  .  .  Not  very  badly,  but  not 
well.  .  .  .  Too  much  strain,  too  much  excitement.  .  .  .  He 
had  worked  too  hard.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing  to  be  alarmed 
about — no  immediate  danger.  But  he  would  have  to  be 
careful — very  careful — in  the  future.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Evert  got  the  rest  of  the  instructions  along  with 
her  husband.  There  must  be  no  more  over  exertion  for 
Mr.  Evert.  That  meant  not  only  in  business,  but  at  the 
table  as  well.  Mr.  Evert  must  be  put  on  a  diet.  He  gave 
her  a  list  of  things  her  husband  had  better  not  eat.  .  .  5. 


72  THE   ROAD 

Cigars  were  reduced  to  a  minimum  with  a  warning  to  stop 
smoking  altogether,  and  the  sooner  the  better. 

The  warm  spell  had  especially  enervated  him,  and  that 
afternoon  they  had  been  to  the  doctor's.  The  physician 
had  again  repeated  his  oft-time  warning  against  worry  and 
excitement.  This,  he  said,  was  to  be  observed  doubly  in  the 
hot  weather. 

Since  his  illness  Mr.  Evert  had  begun  to  talk  more  fre 
quently  about  their  home  town.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking 
back.  There  was  a  kind  of  regret  in  his  voice  whenever 
he  spoke  of  Stillwell,  their  home  there,  the  sand  pit  back 
of  it.  ... 

Now,  too,  the  conversation  drifted  gradually  to  Still- 
well,  and  Mrs.  Evert  joined  in  it  heartily.  She  liked  to 
talk  of  Stillwell.  .  .  .  The  more  the  years  separated  them 
from  the  place,  the  more  she  longed  for  it.  ...  Deep  in 
her  heart  was  the  conviction  that  the  city  was  responsible 
for  their  troubles;  for  her  son's,  for  her  husband's  trou 
bles.  .  .  .  Had  they  never  known  Chicago  that  sickness 
would  never  have  come  upon  him.  .  .  .  One  never  did  see 
many  old  men  in  Chicago,  while  in  Stillwell  people  did 
grow  old.  .  .  .  Her  husband,  it  seemed  to  her,  was  thinking 
about  that  too,  though  he  was  not  speaking  of  it.  ...  In 
Stillwell  his  heart  would  never  have  given  way  on  him 
like  that.  .  .  . 

But  even  about  Stillwell  their  conversation  was  not  al 
ways  as  free  and  easy  now  as  it  was  before  the  incident 
with  Hilda.  .  .  .  Time  and  again  in  the  course  of  a  con 
versation  about  their  former  home  and  surroundings  the 
name  of  their  neighbor,  Carl  Thorsen,  would  come  up.  In 


RAYMOND'S   PILGRIMAGE         73 

the  past  that  name  had  had  no  significance  to  them.  Now 
it  burned  in  their  memory  with  scarlet  letters.  .  .  .  In 
stinctively  each  of  them  sensed  when  the  other  was  think 
ing  of  the  Thorsens  and  both  would  feel  awkward.  .  .  . 

It  was  close  to  eleven.  The  breeze  had  refreshed  them 
and  Henry  Evert  made  his  way  into  the  house,  his  wife 
following. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  came,"  Miss  Straight  was  saying  to 
Raymond  at  the  stroke  of  eleven.  They  were  waiting  for 
a  car  which  was  to  take  him  to  the  west  side.  The  car 
stopped  with  a  crash  and  Raymond  swung  on  to  it.  When 
he  had  gained  a  seat  he  turned  and  looked  back.  Miss 
Straight  was  waving  her  hand  to  him. 

The  streets  were  empty  and  the  car  was  going  at  high 
speed.  When  he  looked  a  second  time  only  a  few  mo 
ments  later  the  settlement  house  had  fused  with  the  dark 
ness  and  was  indistinguishable.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
huge  black  smokestacks  of  the  packing  plants  in  the  Stock 
yards,  past  which  the  car  was  speeding,  stood  vaguely  tow 
ering  against  the  lighter  blackness  of  the  night. 

The  streets  were  quiet  except  for  the  saloons.  Here  there 
\vas  life,  song  and  music.  Groups  of  people  were  standing 
in  front  of  the  swinging  doors.  From  the  "Ladies'  En 
trance"  girls  and  women  were  coming  out  hot  and  flushed. 
Some  hung  on  the  arms  of  men.  Men's  arms  twined  them 
selves  about  the  waists  of  others. 

Raymond  was  thinking  of  Maude  Straight,  of  the  evening 
'he  had  just  passed  with  her.  .  .  .  They  had  given  a  dance 
ior  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  at  the  "Community 


74  THE   ROAD 

House,"  as  the  settlement  was  known,  and  Miss  Straight 
had  invited  him,  had  insisted  on  his  coming.  It  was  not 
an  ordinary  event,  this  dance.  The  Community  House  was 
trying  an  experiment.  It  was  seeking  to  wean  the  boys 
and  girls  of  the  district  away  from  the  neighborhood  dance 
halls  with  their  evil  influences.  ...  All  of  Chicago's  news 
papers  carried  stories  about  the  dance.  They  wrote  edito 
rials  about  it.  They  praised  the  way  in  which  the  famous 
"back  of  the  yards"  settlement  was  tackling  one  of  the  city's 
grave  problems.  .  .  .  Miss  Straight  was  mentioned  in  all  of 
these  stories  and  praised  as  the  able  and  energetic  spirit 
behind  this  movement.  .  .  . 

All  evening  long  Miss  Straight  had  been  greatly  in  de 
mand.  They  had  nearly  forty  couples  on  the  floor  and  she 
chaperoned  them.  .  .  .  There  were  questions  to  answer, 
orders  to  give,  refreshments  to  serve.  She  was  all  smiles 
and  enthusiasm  one  moment,  and  alert  and  collected  the 
next. 

Several  times  during  the  evening  she  was  alone  with  Ray 
mond,  a  few  moments  each  time.  .  .  .  And  in  these  mo 
ments  she  was  transformed.  Her  poise  was  like  a  mask 
which  she  had  put  on  for  others.  She  was  restless,  seemed 
uncertain,  and  was  eager  for  approval,  his  approval.  .  .  . 
She  was  asking  Raymond  for  his  advice,  his  opinion,  as  if 
his  opinion  was  vital  and  counted  above  all.  .  .  .  Also, — she 
was  trying  to  be  a  girl,  merely  a  girl  with  him.  .  .  .  She 
was  drawing  him  into  her  friendship.  .  .  .  She  was  flut 
tering  on  the  fringe  of  intimacy.  .  .  . 

Just  before  they  parted  Miss  Straight  told  him  some 
of  the  plans  she  had  for  the  next  winter.  They  were  to 


RAYMOND'S   PILGRIMAGE         75 

give  special  courses  in  history  and  civics  at  the  settle 
ment.  It  was  important  that  the  young  immigrants  of  the 
neighborhood  know  the  history  of  the  country  and  under 
stand  its  constitution.  It  would  be  nice  if  Mr.  Evert 
could  spare  two  evenings  a  week  and  teach  one  of  the 
classes.  Raymond  told  her  he  would  think  about  it.  ... 

He  tried  to  think  about  it.  ...  But  the  car  had  come 
down  Halstead  Street  at  a  rapid  clip  and  was  humming 
right  into  the  ghetto.  .  .  .  Fourteenth  Street.  .  .  .  Twelfth 
Street.  .  .  .  Here  there  was  life.  Restaurants  were  open. 
.  .  .  Herring  and  delicatessen  stores  were  still  doing  a  brisk 
business.  People  were  preparing  to  go  out  picnicking  in 
the  morning.  .  .  .  Harrison  Street.  .  .  .  Saloons,  music. 
.  .  .  Van  Buren  Street.  .  .  .  Painted  girls.  ...  A  police 
man  taking  in  three  corners  at  a  glance.  .  .  .  Jackson  Bou 
levard.  .  .  . 

It  was  on  Jackson  Boulevard  he  had  met  Hilda  the  first 
time.  .  .  .  Hilda.  .  .  . 

He  changed  cars  mechanically  and  was  at  home  a  little 
before  twelve.  His  mother  was  waiting  for  him.  .  .  .  There 
were  some  things  in  the  ice-box,  if  he  wanted  a  bite.  .  .  . 
But  Raymond  was  not  hungry.  ...  He  asked  about  his  fa 
ther.  Did  he  stand  the  heat  all  right?  His  mother  gave 
him  a  reassuring  answer.  .  .  .  He  was  undecided  for  some 
moments,  but  finally  spoke.  .  .  . 

He  was  going  out  of  town  in  the  morning.  .  .  .  With 
friends.  .  .  .  Oh,  just  for  an  outing.  ...  He  would  prob 
ably  leave  the  house  very  early.  .  .  .  Before  breakfast.  .  .  . 

His  voice  and  manner  did  not  invite  questioning  and  Mrs. 
Evert  heaved  a  low  sigh  and  went  to  her  room.  .  .  . 


76  THE   ROAD 

Raymond  stepped  out  on  the  veranda.  He  was  fatigued. 
The  smell  of  the  stockyards  was  in  his  nostrils.  ...  He 
dropped  into  a  large  wicker  chair.  There  was  a  train 
leaving  for  Stillwell  at  5:45.  He  had  had  an  eye  on  that 
train  for  weeks  and  had  made  sure  of  the  time.  .  .  .  He 
was  going  with  that  train.  .  .  . 

He  had  not  seen  his  home  town  in  more  than  five  years. 
But  it  was  not  Stillwell  he  was  thinking  of.  It  was  Hilda. 
He  must  know  what  had  become  of  the  girl.  ...  In  Still- 
well  he  might  learn  something  of  her.  .  .  .  Perhaps.  .  .  -. 

Two  weeks  earlier  he  had  met  an  old  schoolmate  of  his 
from  Stillwell,  Tom  Andrews.  .  .  .  Tom  ran  right  into  him 
on  State  Street.  ...  At  first  Raymond  experienced  a  sick 
feeling.  .  .  .  He  was  expecting  Tom  to  grin  at  him,  to  speak 
about  Hilda.  .  .  .  But  Hilda  apparently  was  not  in  Tom's 
thoughts.  ...  He  was  delighted  at  seeing  Raymond, 
dragged  him  into  an  ice-cream  parlor  and  they  talked  for 
an  hour. 

Raymond  finally  got  up  courage  and  began  asking  ques 
tions  about  his  old  home,  about  the  Thorsen  home,  the 
Thorsen  family.  .  .  .  But  Tom  vaguely  recalled  that  Carl 
Thorsen  had  died  some  years  back.  As  for  the  widow  Thor 
sen,  she  did  not  seem  to  be  on  the  map  at  all,  at  least, 
not  to  Tom  Andrews.  .  .  . 

Raymond's  thoughts  were  rambling.  There  was  a 
swimmy  feeling  in  the  back  of  his  head.  He  rose  and 
went  into  his  room  to  snatch  a  few  hours'  sleep.  He 
set  the  clock  to  ring  at  five.  A  half-hour  would  bring  him 
to  the  train.  It  would  take  him  less  than  fifteen  minutes 
to  be  dressed  and  ready.  .  .  . 

The  milkman's  steps  on  the  pavement  woke  him  a  quar- 


RAYMOND'S   PILGRIMAGE         77 

ter  to  five.  He  got  up  and  dressed  quickly.  At  five  sharp 
he  was  out  of  the  house.  .  .  .  Luck  was  with  him;  he  ran 
into  a  passing  street  car.  He  was  twenty  minutes  ahead 
of  time  and  walked  into  the  station  lunch  room  for  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  a  sandwich.  .  .  „ 

»•••••• 

The  home  of  his  childhood  lay  nearly  three  miles  from 
the  station  and  a  street  car  brought  him  within  two  miles 
of  it.  These  two  miles  Raymond  had  to  walk.  For  a 
number  of  blocks  there  were  still  city  houses.  Then  he 
was  in  the  country.  Slender  poplar  trees  lined  the  sides 
of  the  road,  and  the  grass  was  a  foot  high.  His  former 
home  lay  beyond  the  hilly  elevation  and  he  did  not  see  it. 

He  was  in  no  hurry  to  get  to  it.  It  was  early.  He 
stretched  himself  on  the  grass  on  one  side  of  the  road 
and  took  out  a  paper,  but  he  did  not  read. 

It  was  a  quarter  after  nine.  In  a  few  minutes  the  regular 
Sunday  morning  procession  of  churchgoers  should  begin. 
In  his  childhood,  Raymond  recalled,  he  used  to  be  able  to 
tell  who  was  coming  a  long  way  off.  He  had  various  ways 
of  identifying  the  neighboring  farmers.  Sometimes  it  was 
the  horses,  sometimes  the  buggy  he  could  distinguish.  Some 
times  it  was  the  manner  of  driving.  Would  he  distin 
guish  his  one-time  neighbors  as  readily  now? 

The  pounding  of  horses'  hoofs  communicated  itself  to  his 
body  even  before  it  reached  his  ears.  A  single  buggy  was 
coming.  He  could  not  identify  it  at  a  distance.  Only  when 
the  buggy  was  quite  near  did  he  recognize  its  occupants. 
It  was  old  man  Sheridan  with  his  daughter,  Miss  Sheri 
dan,  the  school  teacher.  The  old  man  had  not  aged  much. 
His  bushy  eyebrows  and  thick,  untrimmed  beard  were  per- 


78  THE   ROAD 

haps  a  shade  grayer.  But  his  daughter  had  changed.  Miss 
Sheridan's  hair  was  snow  white  and  her  face  was  thin  and 
seamed. 

Mr.  Brann  came  next,  double  buggy,  wife  and  one  daugh 
ter — the  youngest.  He  wondered  what  had  become  of  Lena 
Brann.  Lena  was  his  age,  twenty-two.  They  had  gone  to 
school  together.  Was  she  married?  He  was  recalling  their 
common  school  friends  and  wondering  which  one  of  them 
Lena  might  have  married.  Several  more  buggies  passed, 
but  he  was  too  absorbed  in  these  speculations  to  notice  who 
their  occupants  were. 

The  day  was  going  to  be  hot,  but  the  morning  was  still 
pleasant.  The  earth  under  him  was  oozing  a  raw,  vapory 
warmth.  The  grass  was  radiating  a  listless  fragrance.  The 
lack  of  sleep  the  night  before  and  the  long  ride  on  the  train 
in  the  early  morning  had  tired  him.  He  put  a  part  of 
the  Sunday  paper  under  his  head,  used  another  part  to 
shield  himself  from  the  sun,  and  was  asleep. 

He  woke  past  noon.  The  buggies  with  churchgoers  were 
coming  back  from  the  city  at  a  brisk  clip.  He  was  hungry 
and  turned  back  to  the  city  in  search  of  a  restaurant.  On 
the  Square  he  found  a  lunch  room  open  and  walked  in. 
There  were  only  three  persons  in  the  place.  He  recognized 
the  proprietor.  He  had  known  him  in  years  past.  A  for 
midable  individual  this  man  had  then  been.  Now  he  was 
thin,  and  washed  out.  There  were  rings  under  his  eyes 
and  from  his  head  the  hair  had  disappeared  in  strings,  leav 
ing  whole  spaces  bare. 

It  was  two  o'clock  by  the  time  he  got  back  to  the  place 
where  he  had  slept  in  the  forenoon.  Buggies  were  again  in 


RAYMOND'S   PILGRIMAGE         79 

evidence.  People  were  going  visiting.  He  passed  several 
vehicles  without  recognizing  their  occupants. 

A  buggy  passed  him  and  stopped  short.  A  young  woman 
was  calling  him  by  his  first  name.  It  was  Lena  Brann.  Her 
features  were  more  elongated  than  they  had  been  ten  years 
earlier.  She  had  lost  her  plumpness,  but  he  recognized  her 
none  the  less.  He  stepped  up  to  her.  They  shook  hands. 
Lena  introduced  her  husband,  Jim  Swayzey,  and  Raymond 
recognized  in  him  the  son  of  a  farmer  in  the  vicinity,  who 
had  been  a  big  boy  when  he,  Raymond,  was  starting  school. 
Lena  did  the  talking,  and  he  was  grateful  to  her.  For  an 
instant  he  was  in  a  fever.  But  Lena's  eyes  were  reassuring. 
She  seemed  genuinely  glad  to  see  him.  Her  questions  were 
open  and  friendly.  What  was  he  doing  in  Stillwell?  Come 
to  visit  and  was  looking  up  old  friends?  That  was  nice. 
He  would  find  quite  a  few  changes.  .  .  . 

By  this  time  Raymond  had  himself  in  hand.  He  asked 
about  some  of  their  common  acquaintances,  friends.  Lena 
rattled  off  the  names,  with  a  concise  account  in  each  case. 
Ed.  Larkin,  one  of  their  childhood  playmates,  was  married 
last  spring,  and  had  a  good  position  with  the  railroad  com 
pany.  Fred  Warner,  another  of  the  boys  in  their  immediate 
vicinity,  had  married  Dorothy  Acker.  He  had  a  little  dairy 
farm  up  the  road.  Millie  Grant  had  gone  to  Chicago  last 
year.  She  had  a  good  position  in  the  Farmers'  and  Mer 
chants'  Bank,  but  was  offered  a  better  job  in  Chicago  and 
left. 

Raymond  veered  the  conversation  around  to  their  House, 
the  people  that  lived  in  it ;  and  then,  with  casual  voice,  but 
beating  heart,  inquired  about  the  Thorsens,  watching  all  the 


8o  THE   ROAD 

time  for  a  change  in  Lena's  face  or  expression.  But  there 
was  none. 

He  knew,  of  course,  she  was  saying,  that  old  man  Thor- 
sen  was  dead  these  many  years.  Mrs.  Thorsen — that  is, 
the  second  Mrs.  Thorsen — tried  for  a  time  to  keep  the  busi 
ness  going  with  hired  help.  But  things  did  not  prosper 
and  she  sold  the  place  to  a  Mr.  Crane.  Mr.  Crane  was 
living  there  now.  He  was  not  in  the  sand  business ;  he  was 
a  veterinary  surgeon. 

Lena  had  apparently  forgotten  Hilda,  and  Raymond, 
again  acting  very  casually,  reminded  her  of  the  girl.  Lena 
then  recalled  that  Hilda  had  left  home  shortly  after  her 
father's  death.  She  believed  that  the  girl  had  gone  to 
Chicago  to  live  with  relatives  there.  She  did  not  get  along 
with  her  stepmother.  .  .  .  That  was  the  last  seen  or  heard 
of  her.  .  .  . 

An  impatient  gesture  came  into  Raymond's  face.  He  had 
heard  enough.  Lena  now  quickly  explained  to  him  that 
they  were  on  their  way  to  visit  her  husband's  sister,  living 
on  the  Willow  Grove  road.  If  he,  Raymond,  was  going 
to  stay  in  town  any  length  of  time  they  would  like  to  have 
him  come  up  to  the  farm  and  visit  with  them.  They  had 
bought  the  old  Lyman  place,  two  and  a  half  miles  up  the 
road.  Raymond  was  uncertain  as  to  how  long  he  was  going 
to  stay  in  the  city,  but  should  he  have  the  time,  he  said 
he  would  look  in  on  them.  With  this  they  shook  hands, 
Mr.  Swayzey  pulled  the  reins  and  they  drove  off. 

He  walked  at  a  rapid  pace  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  stood 
in  front  of  his  one-time  home.  Several  youngsters  were 
playing  in  the  yard  and  he  lingered  about,  watching  them. 


RAYMOND'S   PILGRIMAGE         81 

A  girl  of  eighteen  came  out  and  looked  at  him.  He  did 
not  know  her  and  she  did  not  know  who  he  was.  The 
man  who  bought  the  place  from  his  father  had  come  from 
another  part  of  the  state.  He  took  a  sweeping  look  at  the 
house,  the  grounds,  the  barn.  The  house  had  aged  and 
was  in  need  of  a  coat  of  paint  badly.  The  barn  looked 
shabby. 

Raymond  was  about  to  enter  the  yard,  introduce  him 
self,  and  ask  for  permission  to  go  over  the  place,  but 
changed  his  mind.  He  walked  down  a  hundred  paces  and 
stood  in  front  of  what  was  once  Hilda's  home.  A  tall,  thin 
man,  with  a  cement-colored  face,  was  walking  briskly  across 
the  yard.  He  was  wearing  overalls  over  his  Sunday  trousers. 
In  his  hand  he  carried  a  bottle,  medicine,  Raymond  pre 
sumed.  The  man  gave  him  a  passing  glance  and  went  into 
the  barn.  A  woman  came  out  of  the  house,  a  stout  woman 
with  a  florid  face.  She  was  looking  at  Raymond  searchingly, 
and  he  walked  into  the  yard  and  greeted  her. 

He  inquired  about  Mrs.  Thorsen,  but  the  woman  knew 
nothing  of  her.  They  had  bought  the  house,  she  said, 
through  the  recommendation  of  a  friend.  Her  husband  had 
seen  Mrs.  Thorsen  only  once  for  a  few  minutes.  When 
they  came  to  take  possession  of  the  place  the  Thorsens  had 
already  moved. 

He  bade  her  good-day  and  walked  off.  He  went  down 
the  road  another  mile  and  noted  some  of  the  changes  that 
had  taken  place.  There  were  several  new  barns  and  the 
names  on  the  letter  boxes  in  two  instances  were  new  and 
unfamiliar. 

There  was  a  train  going  to  Chicago  at  5:30,  and  an- 


82  THE  ROAD 

other  at  7:00.  He  could  make  the  first  train  if  he  started 
for  the  city  at  once.  But  he  saw  no  reason  for  hurrying.  .  .  . 
He  would  not  be  coming  to  the  place  again  so  quickly.  .  .  . 
It  was  pleasant  in  the  fields.  .  .  .  He  turned  into  a 
narrow  lane  which  led  on  to  another  road  a  mile  distant. 
He  cut  himself  a  walking  stick  from  a  willow  branch  and 
rambled  along.  At  intervals  of  eight  to  ten  minutes  an 
automobile  would  pass.  But  for  that  the  country  was  as 
calm  and  peaceful  as  it  had  been  in  his  early  childhood, 
when  he  with  his  older  brothers  or  with  some  playmates 
would  go  down  this  road  to  the  creek  to  bathe. 

The  creek  was  there  and  its  waters  were  as  clear  as  ever. 
He  stood  for  a  long  while  on  the  bridge  looking  into  the 
water  and  listening  to  its  murmur.  It  was  familiar,  and  it 
was  new. 

Loud,  girlish  laughter  from  a  passing  automobile  brought 
him  back  to  reality.  He  would  just  about  have  time  for 
a  bite  of  supper  before  the  train  left,  if  he  hurried.  He 
started  for  the  city. 

The  train  was  cutting  its  way  through  the  twilight.  It 
was  an  express.  The  fields,  forests,  farmhouses  looked  like 
large  weird  paintings.  His  eyes  grew  heavy  and  he  closed 
them.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  not  really  himself,  but 
some  one  else,  a  stranger,  an  old  man.  He  had  lived  long 
and  was  weary.  .  .  .  They  were  going  past  villages  without 
stopping.  .  .  .  There  were  people  in  these  villages.  .  .  . 
They  were  on  earth,  rooted  in  the  earth.  .  .  .  He  was  soar 
ing  in  space.  .  .  .  Would  always  soar.  .  .  .  Would  never 
have  firm  ground  under  his  feet  like  other  people.  .  .  , 
Never.  . 


RAYMOND'S   PILGRIMAGE         83 

It  was  after  eleven  when  he  came  home.  He  was  late 
on  purpose.  He  did  not  want  to  be  seen  by  his  father,  his 
mother.  .  .  .  He  went  straight  to  his  room  and  began  to 
undress. 

His  mother  entered.  He  stopped  taking  his  clothes  off 
and  remained  seated  on  the  bed.  She  was  standing.  For 
some  moments  both  were  silent.  Finally  she  asked: 

"Were  you  in  Stillwell?" 

He  looked  up  at  her.    Their  eyes  met.    He  lowered  his. 

"Yes,"  he  said.    His  voice  was  hollow. 

He  was  waiting  for  more  questions.  But  she  did  not 
ask.  Mrs.  Evert  walked  out  as  quietly  as  she  had  come 
in.  She  closed  the  door  behind  her.  It  seemed  to  him  she 
was  weeping.  He  sat  for  a  long  time  staring  into  space. .... 


BOOK  II 
CROSSROADS 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  DAILY  BREAD 

THE  ringing  of  an  alarm  clock  in  another  part  of  the 
flat  woke  Hilda  out  of  her  first  night's  sleep  under  the  Vasek 
roof.  Through  the  open  door  a  shaft  of  light  was  falling 
into  the  room.  It  was  five  o'clock.  The  child  was  sound 
asleep  in  the  crib  beside  her  bed  and  Hilda  would  not  wake 
him.  After  the  last  nursing  he  could  go  without  food  until 
six,  she  figured. 

They  had  to  pass  through  her  room  to  get  to  the  kitchen 
— there  was  no  other  way — and  Mrs.  Vasek  slid  through  it 
noiselessly  with  her  bare  feet.  Her  husband  followed  soon 
after  in  his  stockings.  He  did  not  look  in  the  direction  of 
Hilda's  bed,  but  she  saw  that  he  was  carrying  his  shoes 
in  his  hands.  .  .  .  Mr.  Vasek  closed  the  door  behind  him 
quietly.  A  noise  of  some  one  washing  was  heard.  A  little 
later  the  smell  of  fried  potatoes  and  sizzling  bacon  reached 
her.  Mrs.  Vasek  was  making  breakfast  for  her  husband, 
Hilda  thought,  and  a  feeling  of  melancholy  took  possession 
of  her.  The  unreality  of  her  position  was  staring  her  in 
the  face.  .  .  . 

What  was  she  doing  in  this  house,  among  these  people? 
What  had  she  done  to  deserve  this  attention  and  consid 
eration  from  them?  .  .  .  The  whole  thing  was  but  a  pro 
pitious  accident  which  would  end  as  suddenly  as  it  came. 

87 


88  JHE   ROAD 

There  was  no  firm  ground  under  her  feet.  .  .  .  There  was 
no  basis,  neither  in  blood  nor  in  money,  for  her  status 
in  the  Bohemian  home.  She  had  been  received  and  was 
treated  as  a  guest,  as  a  relation.  She  would  have  been 
more  at  ease  had  she  been  treated  as  a  roomer  and  a  stranger, 
which  was  the  status  she  sought.  .  .  . 

An  incident  of  her  dim  past  rose  to  her  mind.  Hilda  was 
about  five  years  old;  her  mother  was  alive  yet.  It  was 
Hallowe'en  and  the  neighbors'  children  had  dressed  up  in 
fantastic  garb;  she  followed  suit.  She  put  on  an  old  dress 
and  jacket  of  her  mother's;  she  found  a  discarded  hat  and 
put  that  on  too.  Jhus  attired  she  strutted  up  and  down 
all  the  afternoon,  with  mincing  steps  and  grimaces,  and 
experienced  a  sensation  of  being  a  grown  person,  of  being 
a  young  lady.  ;  .  .  At  nightfall  the  illusion  snapped.  She 
was  a  child  again  and  she  was  weary.  Ashamed  of  her  ac 
tions  and  her  pretenses  she  ran  into  the  house  and  hid  her 
face  in  the  folds  of  her  mother's  dress,  s  -.  -. 

She  could  not  escape  a  feeling  of  participating  in  some 
such  pretense  now.  .  .  .  She  had  no  claim  to  this  home 
and  the  attentions  that  had  suddenly  come  to  her.  .  .  .  The 
friendship  of  Lydia,  of  Mrs.  Yasek,  was  like  a  spring  day 
in  February — a  chance  episode  of  an  hour  from  which  no 
deductions  were  to  be  drawn.  Spring  was  not  coming  in 
February.  .  .  :.  Her  reception  into  the  Vasek  home  was  not 
solving  her  problems  and  difficulties.  .  .  >  It  would  be  a 
long  time  before  she  and  her  child  would  have  a  home,  would 
Jeel  at  home  anywhere.  .  .  .  There  was  a  long  stretch  of 
winter  ahead  of  them.  .  ,  .  There  must  be  no  illusions.  .  •.  s 
She  was  not  a  child  now.  , 


THE    DAILY   BREAD  89 

Her  fresh  young  body  was  asserting  itself,  however,  and 
when  she  was  dressed  and  walking  up  and  down  the  room, 
she  noticed  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  how  much  stronger 
she  had  grown  since  the  previous  afternoon.  With  every 
step  she  took  her  limbs  were  becoming  firmer.  Her  break 
fast,  which  Mrs.  Vasek  insisted  on  preparing  and  serving, 
sent  a  flood  of  energy  through  her.  Her  brain  gained  in 
clearness,  her  thoughts  in  definiteness.  The  melancholy 
brooding  had  given  way  to  concise,  practical  planning. 

She  was  figuring  that  a  week's  rest  would  be  about  all 
she  would  take,  and  then  .  .  .  Grimly  she  dismissed  all 
thoughts  of  office  work  and  of  other  more  desirable  jobs, 
about  which  she  had  been  dreaming  up  to  the  very  coming 
of  her  child.  .  .  .  No,  she  must  keep  her  feet  firmly  planted 
on  the  ground.  .  .  .  She  was  thinking  of  factory  work, 
which  was  what  she  knew  and  had  experience  in.  .  .  ,  Only 
f — she  would  make  an  effort  to  get  to  a  place  where  the 
work  was  steady  and  the  pay  better  than  it  had  been  at 
the  knitting  factory  she  worked  at  last.  She  needed  more 
money  now.  .  .  . 

In  the  early  afternoon  Lydia,  who  had  been  out  of  the 
hospital  some  days  ahead  of  her  and  had  rapidly  recovered, 
came  to  see  her. 

"You  seem  worried,"  her  friend  said  after  the  first  few 
•questions  about  herself  and  the  child. 

Hilda  told  her  about  the  plans  she  was  making  for  going 
to  work.  She  was  worried  about  finding  a  woman  to  take 
care  of  the  infant  during  the  day  while  she  was  at  work. 

"You  intend  to  go  back  to  the  factory?"  Lydia  asked. 

"What  else  can  I  do?"  Hilda  queried  in  return. 


90  THE   ROAD 

Her  friend  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"Have  you  thought  of  going  to  work  in  a  restaurant  as  a 
waitress?  We  talked  of  it  once  before  in  the  hospital." 

Hilda  recalled  the  hospital  conversation. 

"But,"  she  said,  "there  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  future 
in  it." 

"No,  there  isn't  much  of  a  future  in  it,"  Lydia  agreed. 
"But  there'll  be  time  to  think  about  the  future  later.  Right 
now  the  problem  is  to  pull  your  infant  through  the  summer 
months.  .  $  a  ." 

She  was  telling  her  what  the  summer  months  meant  to 
newborn  babies  in  that  part  of  the  city.  It  was  mother's 
milk  or  death  to  many  of  them.  The  short  day  which 
restaurant  work  permitted  would  be  a  great  thing  for  her 
child. 

Hilda  was  silent;  there  was  nothing  she  could  say.  The 
child  was  pitifully  small.  There  would  be  no  one  to  give 
him  a  square  deal  if  she  did  not.  .  .  .  Her  abhorrence  for 
the  restaurant  job  was  due  largely  to  the  fact  that  it  in 
volved  the  taking  of  tips.  A  sense  of  delicacy,  however,  pre 
vented  her  from  mentioning  this.  Lydia's  husband,  Ernest 
White,  though  a  musician  by  calling,  as  her  friend  had  told 
her,  was  a  waiter  by  trade,  a  .  . 

She  was  pondering  over  her  friend's  words  the  rest  of  the 
day.  In  the  evening  Ernest  White  came. 

Lydia  had  introduced  her  husband  to  Hilda  in  the  hos 
pital  and  they  had  exchanged  a  few  words  there.  But  this 
was  the  first  time  Mr.  White  saw  Hilda  dressed  and  on  her 
feet.  She  was  a  changed  person;  her  looks  and  ways  were 
so  different  that  he  could  not  conceal  his  surprise.  White 


THE   DAILY   BREAD  91 

was  a  reader  of  books  and  as  she  stood  before  him,  lithe 
and  graceful,  she  appeared  to  him  like  a  character  from  one 
of  the  American  novels  he  had  read. 

Mrs.  Vasek  was  fluttering  about  him.  She  led  him  into 
the  parlor  and  drew  the  best  chair  toward  him.  She  was 
beaming  at  Hilda,  too.  Apparently  Mr.  White  was  of  some 
consequence  in  Mrs.  Vasek's  circle  and  she  was  proud  of 
his  visit. 

After  a  momentary  awkwardness,  due  possibly  to  the 
fuss  Mrs.  Vasek  was  making  over  him,  but  more  likely 
to  the  fact  that  the  young  woman  standing  before  him  was 
so  different  from  what  he  had  expected  to  find,  he  talked 
more  easily.  He  asked  after  Hilda's  condition,  after  the 
child.  ...  As  Hilda  answered  him,  as  she  was  speaking, 
White's  gaze  dwelt  upon  her  lips.  He  seemed  to  be  listen 
ing  to  her  not  alone  with  his  ears,  but  with  his  eyes.  .  .  . 
Her  speech  sounded  new  to  him.  It  was  Western.  .  .  . 

He  was  in  agreement  with  his  wife  on  the  matter  of  Mrs. 
Thorsen's  occupation,  he  said.  A  job  in  a  restaurant  would 
serve  her  and  her  baby  best  at  this  time.  ...  It  was  of 
course  immaterial  to  them — it  was  only  out  of  friendship 
they  were  speaking.  .  .  . 

And  then  without  the  slightest  suggestion  or  mention 
from  Hilda,  Mr.  White  somehow  seemed  to  divine  the  real 
reason  for  Hilda's  disinclination  to  go  into  restaurant  work 
—the  tip  taking  it  involved.  ...  It  was  not  without  a  strug 
gle,  he  recalled,  that  he  also  accepted  his  first  job  as  a 
waiter.  .  .  .  With  flushed  face  he  began  to  explain  and 
modify  his  original  statement. 

He  did  not,  of  course,  mean  that  Hilda  should  stay  in 


92  THE   ROAD 

restaurant  work  permanently  or  even  any  length  of  time. 
He  looked  upon  such  employment  for  her  as  a  makeshift 
only,  until  her  child  was  older  and  she  could  go  into  some 
thing  else.  With  him,  too,  his  restaurant  job  was  only  a 
makeshift.  .  .  .  He  was  marking  time.  .  .  .  Restaurant 
work  was  better  than  any  other  work  for  him  because  it  was 
less  tiring  and  gave  him  leisure  to  devote  himself  to  his 
violin.  .  .  .  His  music  called  for  leisure.  .  .  . 

White  stayed  for  some  time.  He  was  asking  her  about 
Chicago,  the  West,  and  was  making  comparisons  with  New 
York.  When  Hilda  first  saw  him  in  the  hospital  he  ap 
peared  to  her  as  distinguished  looking.  A  certain  softness 
and  simplicity  which  he  possessed  impressed  her  now.  He 
spoke  sincerely  and  gently.  She  was  ascribing  White's 
friendship,  the  kindness  of  his  wife  and  of  Mrs.  Vasek  to  her, 
as  being  due  to  the  fact  that  they,  too,  were  strangers  in 
New  York.  Apparently  it  was  an  immigrant  trait.  .  .  . 
Both  her  father  and  her  mother,  she  recalled,  had  always 
been  kind  and  hospitable.  .  .  .  There  certainly  could  not  be 
anything  but  the  most  friendly  intentions  in  their  suggest 
ing  and  even  urging  that  she  take  up  restaurant  work.  .  .  . 

When  White  was  gone  his  voice,  with  the  quaint  foreign 
flavor  in  it,  still  seemed  to  be  reverberating  in  the  atmos 
phere.  Hilda  was  thinking  of  many  things,  recalling  many 
things.  .  .  .  The  constraint  and  tension  of  the  day  were 
gone.  Her  mood  was  mellowing.  .  •,  . 

It  was  to  be  restaurant  work,  as  her  newly  made  friends 
had  urged  upon  her.  And  it  was  not  until  after  she  had 
rested  for  fully  two  weeks — in  this  too  she  yielded  to  her 


THE   DAILY   BREAD  93 

friends — that  Hilda  went  out  to  look  for  employment.  She 
found  a  job  in  a  bakery  and  lunch  room  on  Third  Avenue, 
within  eight  or  ten  minutes'  walk  from  where  she  lived.  It 
was  a  cheap  place,  where  expressmen,  milkmen  and  the  like 
would  stop  in  for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  piece  of  pie  around 
noon.  No  experience  was  called  for.  The  pay  was  two 
and  a  half  dollars  a  week,  but  with  tips  a  girl  averaged 
six  dollars. 

After  six  weeks  in  this  place,  when  she  had  become 
accustomed  to  handling  trays  and  taking  orders,  White 
pointed  out  to  her  an  advertisement  of  a  downtown  restau 
rant  calling  for  "experienced"  waitresses.  He  suggested  that 
she  answer  it.  There  was  more  money  in  such  a  place, 
he  said,  and  she  might  as  well  make  all  the  money  she 
could;  she  would  need  it. 

"Tell  them,"  he  gave  her  a  final  bit  of  advice,  "that  you 
have  six  months'  experience,  instead  of  six  weeks,  and  you 
will  probably  get  the  job." 

She  got  it,  and  at  the  end  of  the  first  week  her  wages 
mounted  up  to  nine  dollars.  That  evening  when  the  child 
was  asleep  she  ran  over  to  Lydia's  home  to  impart  to  her 
and  to  her  husband  the  good  news.  Here  a  surprise  awaited 
Hilda.  The  Whites  had  moved  that  very  afternoon  to  a 
model  tenement  building  which  had  just  been  completed  in 
the  neighborhood.  Hilda  went  in  search  of  them. 

Lydia  threw  her  arms  about  her  the  moment  she  entered. 

"Look,  look,"  she  beamed  as  she  led  Hilda  from  room  to 
room. 

The  Whites  had  three  rooms  and  a  bath.  The  floors  were 
of  cement;  there  was  electricity  in  every  room.  But  what 


94  THE   ROAD 

evoked  Lydia's  delight  above  all  was  the  bath  with  the  hot 
and  cold  water,  "hot  water  all  the  time,"  as  she  emphasized 
it  to  Hilda.  Only  the  best  paid  workers  in  the  neigh 
borhood  could  afford  an  apartment  in  the  model  tenement. 
Among  the  tenants  there  were  a  number  of  social  settle 
ment  workers,  writers,  and  artists.  Lydia  was  frankly  de 
lighted  at  the  way  she  had  come  up  in  the  world.  .  .  . 

Her  husband  was  busy  hanging  pictures.  A  number  of 
prints,  framed  and  unframed,  lay  on  the  table  in  the  par 
lor.  Hilda  stopped  to  examine  them,  while  Lydia  went 
back  to  the  kitchen. 

"Here's  one  that  ought  to  be  familiar  to  you,"  White 
said,  handing  Hilda  a  print  by  Remington  which  represented 
a  prairie  scene  in  the  Far  West. 

She  explained  that  the  location  of  this  particular  paint 
ing  was  probably  two  or  three  days'  distance  by  train  from 
where  she  was  born  and  lived  prior  to  her  coming  to  New 
York. 

There  were  several  more  prints  and  Hilda  became  ab 
sorbed  in  them.  White  walked  over  and  stood  beside  her 
gazing  at  the  picture  she  held.  It  represented  a  lone  Indian 
rider  in  the  desert.  In  the  distance  was  a  chain  of  purple 
mountains.  .  .  . 

"Fascinating!"  White  said  softly. 

Hilda  agreed  that  it  was  beautiful. 

"It  must  be  wonderful  out  there,  out  West,"  he  spoke 
dreamily.  "It  seems  to  me  one  could  do  big  things 
there.  .  .  ." 

Hilda  was  silent. 

"New  York,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  "is  an  excellent 


THE   DAILY   BREAD  95 

place  for  old  men,  for  men  who  have  achieved,  who  have 
prospered  and  want  to  come  here  to  get  the  glory  for  their 
achievements,  to  enjoy  their  prosperity.  But  it  is  no  place 
for  a  young  man,  unless  his  ambitions  run  to  banking  or 
commerce.  .  .  ." 

Lydia  in  the  next  room  overheard  her  husband's  voice. 
She  stepped  up  to  the  door  of  the  parlor  and  remained 
there  as  if  riveted  to  the  spot.  Hilda  was  almost  a  head 
taller  than  herself  and  standing  beside  her  tall,  slender 
husband,  the  two  made  a  striking  pair.  Neither  White  nor 
Hilda  noticed  Lydia. 

"I  wonder,"  he  continued,  still  gazing  at  the  painting, 
"if  all  this — the  prairies,  the  mountains,  could  not  be  re 
duced  to  music  as  well  as  to  painting?  There  is  music  in 
them  as  well  as  color.  ...  A  symphony  of  the  desert.  .  .  ." 

He  became  silent  and  his  gaze  seemed  transported.  .  .  . 
His  wife  stepped  up  to  them.  Hilda  handed  the  print  to 
her  for  Lydia  to  admire,  but  the  latter  put  it  aside  with 
out  looking  at  it.  She  was  gazing  at  her  husband  with  a 
strange,  unaccustomed  look.  ...  A  slight  embarrassment 
came  over  White.  . 


From  a  tiny  room  in  the  rear  of  the  restaurant  came  the 
clicking  of  a  writing  machine.  The  door  stood  open  and 
Hilda,  who  had  begun  to  feel  at  home  in  the  place,  looked 
in.  The  cashier,  Miss  Lynch,  was  pounding  out  the  day's 
bills  of  fare — the  business  day  had  not  yet  begun.  When 
she  saw  Hilda  in  the  doorway  she  nodded  to  her  with  a 
smile. 


9"6  THE   ROAD 

"Do  you  type?"  Miss  Lynch  'asked,  resting  from  her 
work  for  a  moment. 

"No,  but  I  wish  I  did." 

"I  never  studied  it  systematically  myself,"  Miss  Lynch 
confessed.  "I  just  picked  it  up.  I  worked  in  a  place 
where  there  was  a  machine  and  I  practised  whenever  I  had 
a  chance." 

Hilda  was  gazing  at  the  machine  wistfully.  The  cashier 
observed  her  look. 

"Would  you  like  to  try  your  hand  at  it?"  she  asked. 
"I  am  finished." 

She  rose  and  surrendered  her  place  to  Hilda,  who  for 
the  space  of  ten  minutes  sat  fishing  about  for  letters  on 
the  keyboard,  while  Miss  Lynch  looked  on  good-naturedly. 

The  feel  of  her  fingers  hitting  the  typewriter  keys  was 
with  Hilda  all  that  day,  and  ambitions  that  had  lain 
dormant  in  her  for  many  months  began  to  stir.  .  .  .  She 
was  in  the  restaurant  the  next  morning  fifteen  minutes 
earlier.  Miss  Lynch,  who  in  addition  to  being  cashier,  was 
also  taking  charge  of  the  place  when  the  manager  was  not 
in,  guessed  the  reason  for  Hilda's  early  arrival.  Without 
a  word,  but  with  a  knowing  smile,  she  directed  the  waitress 
to  the  office.  Soon  the  sporadic  beating  of  the  keys  be 
came  audible. 

For  several  days  in  succession  Hilda  came  to  work  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  earlier,  and,  with  Miss  Lynch's  tacit 
understanding,  would  at  once  immerse  herself  in  the  in 
tricacies  of  the  writing  machine. 

"I  guess  you  mean  business,"  the  cashier  once  said  to 
her  when  she  observed  a  printed  half-page  sticking  out  of 


THE    DAILY   BREAD  97 

the  typewriter.  "That's  remarkably  quick  work,  I  must 
say." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  Hilda  asked,  her  heart  leaping 
within  her. 

"I  most  certainly  do,"  Miss  Lynch  assured  her,  and  by 
way  of  proving  her  earnestness  she  made  several  valuable 
suggestions  about  the  machine  and  its  operation. 

The  following  day  Hilda  was  fully  half  an  hour  ahead 
at  the  restaurant.  Miss  Lynch  did  not  notice  the  change 
in  her  schedule.  For  weeks  thereafter  the  half-hour  at  the 
typewriter  every  morning  had  become  an  absorbing  event 
in  Hilda's  life. 

September  came.  The  summer  was  over  and  the  time 
Hilda  had  mentally  set  as  the  limit  to  her  staying  in  the 
occupation  of  waitress  had  arrived.  But  the  thought  of 
quitting  the  restaurant  for  the  factory  had  lost  its  ur 
gency.  .  .  . 

One  morning  about  the  middle  of  the  month  she  re 
quested  the  cashier  for  the  day's  menu  and  made  it  her 
practise  lesson.  When  Miss  Lynch  looked  over  a  few 
of  the  bills  Hilda  had  printed  she  decided  to  use  them, 
and  she  let  the  girl  go  on  typing  the  remainder  of  the 
cards. 

"You  can  have  the  job  in  the  future,"  she  said  half  in 
jest.  But  Hilda  walked  in  the  clouds  the  rest  of  that  day. 
Every  time  she  saw  a  patron  studying  the  bill  of  fare  which 
she  had  typed,  her  face  would  assume  a  mysterious  air, 
as  if  she  and  the  printed  slip  had  a  great  secret  in  com 
mon.  She  threw  caution  to  the  wind  and  gave  her  imagi- 


98  THE   ROAD 

nation  full  sway.  Plans  and  ambitions  were  surging  through 
her  brain.  The  restaurant,  her  job,  now  appeared  to  her 
as  the  cornerstone  of  all  these  dreams  and  ambitions. 

She  determined  not  to  leave  the  restaurant  work  that 
winter  and  possibly  not  till  the  following  autumn.  She 
was  earning  well  and  she  had  time;  that  was  the  main 
thing,  time.  By  the  spring  the  child  and  her  finances  would 
both  be  in  condition  for  her  to  consider  going  to  a  busi 
ness  college  for  a  few  months.  And  then — then  she  would 
bid  the  factory  adieu  forever.  .  .  .  New  horizons  were  open 
ing  before  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

But  in  October  the  five-story  structure  which  housed  the 
restaurant  was  sold.  It  was  to  be  torn  down  and  an  up-to- 
date  skyscraper  was  to  go  up  in  its  place.  The  owners  of 
the  restaurant  were  given  three  months'  time  to  vacate 
the  premises.  In  the  next  few  weeks  the  business  wheels 
in  the  place  began  to  turn  more  slowly.  Several  of  the  help 
left. 

Hilda  stayed  on  till  the  very  end.  Miss  Lynch,  occu 
pied  with  other  work,  definitely  turned  over  to  her  the  job 
of  typing  the  bills  of  fare  every  morning.  The  typewriter 
had  become  like  a  friend  from  whom  it  was  not  easy  to 
part.  The  first  week  in  January,  however,  found  Hilda 
looking  for  work.  She  found  a  job  in  a  restaurant  near 
Times  Square,  in  the  heart  of  New  York.  By 'coincidence 
her  new  place  of  work  was  just  around  the  corner  from 
the  fashionable  cafe  where  Ernest  White  was  employed. 

Her  new  job  brought  with  it  complications  and  disap 
pointments,  chief  of  which  was  her  break  with  the  Whites, 
with  Lydia  and  her  husband,  which  followed  within  a  month. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
SHADOWS 

HILDA'S  break  with  her  friends  came  about  as  follows: 
Early  in  February  she  ran  up  to  the  White  flat  one 
evening.  Neither  Lydia  nor  her  husband  had  been  around 
to  see  her  in  more  than  a  week,  a  thing  which  seldom  before 
happened,  and  she  came  to  find  out  if  anything  was  wrong. 
Something  was  wrong.  Lydia  was  distinctly  unfriendly  and 
let  Hilda  see  it  the  moment  the  latter  entered. 

She  was  dazed  by  her  reception.  It  was  entirely  unex 
pected.  A  suspicion  flashed  through  her  mind.  Perhaps 
her  friends  had  in  some  manner  learned  of  her,  Hilda's,  past, 
and  that  accounted  for  the  change  in  them,  for  their  sudden 
coldness.  Directly  this  thought  came  to  her  mind  corrobo 
rative  evidence  seemed  to  follow  it.  Mrs.  Vasek,  too,  had 
not  been  as  friendly  with  her  of  late  as  was  her  wont. 

To  break  the  awkward  silence  Hilda  asked  Lydia  where 
her  husband  was. 

"Why,  don't  you  see  enough  of  him  in  the  daytime?" 
There  was  an  angry,  malevolent  gaze  in  Lydia's  eyes  as 
she  spoke  these  words.  Everything  was  over  between  them. 
Hilda  knew  it  instantly.  She  flushed  and  paled  by  turns. 
She  was  frightened  at  the  sudden  crash  of  their  friend 
ship,  but  she  was  relieved  that  her  past  had  remained  undis 
covered. 

90 


ioo  THE   ROAD 

White  entered  at  that  moment.  He  nodded  to  Hikia  an 
embarrassed  greeting.  His  face  was  pale  and  agitated. 
She  noticed  that  Lydia,  too,  looked  bad.  They  had  been 
quarreling,  quarreling  on  her  account. 

White  was  speaking  to  his  wife  about  household  matters, 
trifles,  and  Hilda  realized  that  he  was  jabbering  this  non 
sense  merely  to  break  the  awkward  silence.  She  was  humili 
ated  and  thought  of  asking  for  and  giving  explanations,  but 
a  sense  of  futility  came  over  her.  Arguments  would  be  use 
less,  she  felt;  it  was  no  longer  a  matter  for  words.  Her 
friendship  with  the  Bohemian  girl  and  her  husband  had  no 
foundation.  It  was  a  whim  and  the  whim  had  passed. 
Lydia  did  not  want  any  more  of  her;  did  not  wish  her 
around.  It  was  a  chapter  to  be  closed.  She  got  up  and 
bade  them  good-night. 

When  she  got  to  her  room  she  lay  awake  and  thinking 
for  a  long  time.  There  had  been  not  the  slightest  reason 
for  Lydia  to  make  the  attack  upon  her  which  she  had 
made.  Hilda's  thoughts  had  been  pure  and  her  conduct 
had  been  as  pure  as  her  thoughts.  There  had  been  noth 
ing  in  her  relations  with  Mr.  White  to  justify  his  wife's 
suspicion.  The  proximity  of  her  place  of  work  to  the  cafe 
where  White  was  employed  was  entirely  accidental.  She 
was  not  aware  until  some  days  after  she  took  the  job  that 
they  were  located  so  near  one  another.  Once  about  ten 
days  earlier  she  and  White  had  met  on  the  elevated  plat 
form  and  rode  to  work  together.  It  was  she  herself  who 
told  Lydia  of  this  chance  meeting. 

The  break  in  their  friendship  implied  a  complete  change 


SHADOWS  101 

in  her  mode  of  living.  She  would  have  to  move  from  the 
Vaseks'.  Mrs.  Vasek  was  a  friend  of  Lydia's  older  sister, 
of  her  family.  She  had  taken  Hilda  in  at  Lydia's  request 
and  she  would  make  her  go  at  the  latter 's  displeasure.  Hilda 
was  unprepared  for  such  a  sudden  change.  Nevertheless, 
she  decided  to  act  at  once. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning  she  sounded  her  land 
lady.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Vasek  needed  the  room?  The  land 
lady  was  embarrassed.  She  did  not  need  the  room,  and 
after  Hilda  had  moved  she  would  rent  it  to  some  one 
else.  ...  It  was  hard  to  tell  her  to  go.  Mrs.  Vasek  was 
not  at  all  convinced  that  Hilda  was  guilty  of  any  indis 
cretion,  let  alone  a  wrong  toward  Lydia.  ...  But  it  was 
equally  unpleasant  to  have  her  about,  and  she  took  refuge 
in  turning  adviser. 

What  Hilda  needed,  she  was  saying,  was  a  little  flat 
all  to  herself.  It  would  not  be  more  expense  in  the  end, 
and  it  would  be  ever  so  much  better  for  her  to  be  alone. 
It  was  hard  to  find  comfort  with  strangers.  With  a  child 
one  needed  a  little  home.  .  .  . 

"You  are  not  staying  in  New  York  for  a  month  or  two," 
the  landlady  expostulated  in  her  mixture  of  English  and 
Bohemian,  which  Hilda  had  come  to  understand  very  well. 
"You  will  most  likely  be  living  here  for  years  to  come, 
so  you  might  as  well  furnish  a  little  home  of  your  own." 

Here  she  plunged  into  details  of  furniture  buying  and 
the  plan  of  paying  for  it  by  instalments.  Hilda  looked 
crestfallen. 

"But  there  is  no  hurry  about  moving."    Mrs.  Vasek  at- 


102  THE   ROAD 

tempted  to  ease  things  for  her.  "Take  your  time.  Spring 
will  soon  be  here.  There  will  be  all  sorts  of  little  flats 
in  the  spring." 

She  was  once  more  nice  to  her,  but  Hilda  could  no 
more  resume  her  wholehearted  relations  with  the  landlady. 
She  was  determined  to  find  new  quarters  as  soon  as  pos 
sible. 

The  thought  of  living  alone  frightened  her.  It  opened 
up  such  vistas  of  solitude  and  loneliness,  and  required  a 
mental  attitude  which  Hilda  still  lacked.  There  were  thou 
sands  of  widows,  of  divorced  women  in  New  York,  living 
alone  in  such  little  apartments  as  Mrs.  Vasek  had  described 
to  her,  but  she  was  keeping  aloof  from  these  women  men 
tally.  In  her  thoughts,  in  her  psychology,  she  was  still 
pretty  much  of  a  girl.  In  spite  of  her  determination  to  be 
hard  and  practical  she  was  still  dreaming  her  unfulfilled 
dreams.  .  .  . 

For  a  week  she  put  in  every  free  moment  looking  for  a 
furnished  room.  But,  after  the  friendly  attention  and 
freedom  she  had  had  at  the  Vasek  home,  every  one  of  the 
furnished  rooms  she  saw  looked  chill  and  dreary.  At  the 
mention  of  the  child  several  landladies  cut  all  negotiations 
short.  They  did  not  wish  women  with  children. 

She  came  back  to  the  proposition  of  taking  a  little  flat 
and  furnishing  it  herself.  There  seemed  to  be  no  other 
outcome.  She  even  began  to  look  upon  it  as  a  test.  .  .  . 
She  had  been  leaning  on  the  Whites.  She  had  been  lean 
ing  on  Mrs.  Vasek.  Had  she  the  strength  of  character  to 
stand  alone?  Settling  down  in  a  little  flat,  like  thousands 
of  other  widows,  real  widows,  living  like  them,  raising  her 


SHADOWS  103 

child  like  them,  would  be  the  final  break  with  the  past. 
.  .  .  There  would  be  no  more  escaping  reality,  no  more  pre 
tending  that  things  might  still  be  otherwise.  .  .  . 

The  first  week  in  March  found  Hilda  installed  in  a  two- 
room  flat  in  the  rear  of  a  tenement  on  First  Avenue.  Her 
new  home  was  only  three  blocks  from  the  Vaseks  and 
not  more  than  six  blocks  from  the  model  tenement  in 
which  the  Whites  lived.  She  could  not  move  out  of  the 
neighborhood  altogether  without  losing  the  services  of  the 
day  nursery  to  which  she  was  taking  her  child  regularly 
and  to  which  she  was  by  now  accustomed. 

In  spite  of  this  proximity,  however,  Hilda  and  her  for 
mer  friends  did  not  see  one  another  any  more.  Their  paths 
were  destined  never  to  cross  again.  .  .  . 

For  a  week  after  Hilda  moved  into  her  rooms  she  walked 
on  tiptoe,  as  if  afraid  of  being  discovered  there.  ...  It  was 
strange  to  live  all  alone,  to  be  the  mistress  of  a  home  in 
which  there  was  no  master.  ...  At  night,  when  the  child 
was  asleep  and  her  housework  done,  she  would  turn  off  the 
gaslight  and  sit  by  the  window.  Seeing  but  unseen  she 
would  gaze  across  the  yard  into  the  opposite  tenement. 
She  was  in  the  heart  of  an  immigrant  district  and  these 
rear  tenement  homes  mostly  were  curtainless.  The  people 
in  them,  peasants  from  primitive,  out  of  the  way  places  in 
Eastern  Europe,  were  leading  an  elemental  existence.  The 
old  were  beastly  stolid,  the  young  brutally  sensuous,  for 
the  most  part.  .  .  .  There  was  little  privacy  and  no  deli 
cacy.  .  .  .  Often  she  would  turn  away  from  the  window 
her  face  burning  with  shame.  ...  In  her  bed  she  would 


104  THE   ROAD 

toss  and  moan  for  a  long  time.  .  .  .  It  was  not  thus  she 
had  pictured  her  future.  .  .  . 

One  day  shortly  thereafter  Hilda  made  a  discovery.  She 
was  no  longer  alone.  Her  thoughts  were  working  in  con 
junction  with  another  mind,  which  had  taken  up  its  re 
sidence  in  her  brain.  This  invisible  mind  seemed  older, 
more  experienced  and  was  always  coming  to  the  aid  of 
her  puzzled  head.  It  explained  things  to  her,  commented 
on  things.  ...  It  pointed  out  motives,  objects,  designs. 
On  second  look  things  never  appeared  the  same  to  her, 
and  Hilda  now  always  took  a  second  look. 

The  invisible  mind  seemed  to  know  everything  and  to 
penetrate  everywhere.  It  knew  the  world,  it  knew  New 
York,  it  knew  Broadway.  It  was  interpreting  people  to  her 
in  the  street,  on  the  train,  in  the  restaurant.  ...  It  was 
giving  her  an  inside  view  of  every  one  and  everything 
about  her.  .  .  .  And  it  was  always  warning  her,  urging 
caution. 

In  her  new  place  of  work  Hilda  found  that  her  ideas 
of  Broadway  in  the  past  had  been  one-sided.  She  had  imag 
ined  the  great  street  to  be  a  place  of  perpetual  light,  gaiety, 
and  laughter.  She  was  now  daily  seeing  the  other  side  of 
the  medallion.  She  was  seeing  Broadway's  shadows.  The 
lights  streamed  at  night,  the  shadows  glimmered  in  the  day 
time.  .  .  . 

The  Jarvis — such  was  the  name  of  the  restaurant — was 
located  in  the  heart  of  New  York's  theatrical  district.  It 
was  flanked  by  Broadway  on  one  side  and  by  Sixth  Avenue 


SHADOWS  105 

on  the  other.  At  night  the  street  was  a  part  of  the  great 
White  Way.  In  the  daytime  it  was  a  sort  of  rialto  for 
chorus  girls  of  a  kind,  vaudeville  performers,  gamblers,  and 
the  riffraff  of  the  half  world.  .  .  .  There  were  half  a  dozen 
table  d'hote  places  within  the  block  and  the  street  on  either 
side  was  lined  with  taxicabs  at  all  hours. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  the  character  of  the  Jarvis 
patronage  changed  three  times.  When  she  came  to  work 
at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  Hilda  found  the  restaurant 
in  the  possession  of  the  chauffeurs.  The  place  hummed 
with  their  conversation.  They  swapped  the  news  of  the 
day,  or  rather  of  the  night,  joked  with  the  waitresses,  many 
of  whom  they  called  by  their  first  names,  and  now  and  then 
called  upon  the  manager,  a  suave  Hungarian  who  posed  as 
a  Frenchman,  to  settle  disputes. 

Shortly  before  eleven  o'clock  the  taxi  crowd  would  "fade 
away,"  as  the  expression  among  the  waitresses  ran.  It  was 
the  chauffeurs'  busy  hour.  It  was  also  the  busy  hour 
at  the  restaurant.  From  eleven-thirty  to  two  several  hun 
dred  clerks,  stenographers,  salesmen,  as  well  as  minor  busi 
ness  men  and  manufacturers  located  in  the  neighborhood, 
were  served.  A  little  after  two  o'clock  the  nature  of  the 
patronage  again  changed.  Precisely  as  the  chauffeurs  took 
possession  of  the  restaurant  in  the  forenoon,  so  the  baked- 
apple-and-grapefruit  crowd  would  take  possession  of  it  in 
the  afternoon. 

Hilda  liked  the  noon  crowd  best.  She  was  uneasy  with 
the  chauffeurs.  They  frightened  her  with  their  glances  and 
jests.  Several  of  the  waitresses  in  the  place  were  friendly 
with  them  and  went  out  with  them  evenings.  Some  of  the 


io6  THE   ROAD 

chauffeurs  were  importuning  her  also  to  go  out  for  rides. 
One  of  them,  Dick  Malloy,  was  especially  persistent  and 
whenever  she  had  to  wait  on  him  she  was  nervous  and  ill 
at  ease. 

"What'd  you  say  to  a  little  drive  this  evening?"  Malloy 
would  invariably  begin. 

Hilda  would  not  answer. 

"Come  on,  kid,  have  a  heart."  He  would  attempt  to  be 
jocular,  and  his  smile  would  send  a  chill  down  Hilda's 
spine. 

She  could  never  tell  whether  the  chauffeur  was  young 
or  old,  a  boy  or  a  man.  Varying  with  the  occasion  he 
could  pass  for  twenty-four  or  forty.  His  face  was  thin 
and  boyish,  but  his  hair  was  beginning  to  gray  at  the  tem 
ples,  and  his  eyes  were  old  and  cynical. 

Among  the  noon  crowd  there  were  also  plenty  of  men 
who  were  inclined  to  season  their  lunch  with  flirtation.  The 
haste,  however,  with  which  the  orders  had  to  be  filled 
gave  Hilda  an  opportunity  to  ignore  many  an  ingratiating 
smirk,  yet  without  leaving  the  customer  offended.  It  was 
all  charged  up  to  the  rush. 

But  even  more  than  the  chauffeurs,  the  late  afternoon 
crowd  disturbed  Hilda.  While  waiting  upon  the  afternoon 
customers  she  had  the  sensation  of  standing  on  a  preci 
pice,  a  mad  whirlpool  seething  at  her  feet.  .  .  . 

The  baked-apple-and-grapefruit  crowd  consisted  of  young 
women,  many  of  them  mere  girls,  who  wore  their  feathered 
headwear  and  French  heels  with  peculiar  conspicuousness. 
At  the  Jarvis  every  afternoon  they  met  their  friends,  im 
maculate  young  men  of  uncertain  occupations.  Respecta- 


SHADOWS  107 

bility  was  the  watchword  of  the  Jarvis  management,  and 
this  afternoon  patronage  was  referred  to  as  the  "theater 
trade,"  the  girls  designated  as  "chorus  girls."  The  wait 
resses  adhered  rigidly  to  this  legend,  but  the  patrons  them 
selves  were  constantly  exploding  it. 

The  talk  at  the  small  marble  tables  sizzled  with  refer 
ences  to  raids,  bail,  police.  The  girls,  some  of  them  patheti 
cally  young,  were  remarkably  well  instructed  in  the  ways 
and  procedures  of  the  courts  of  law  and  discussed  intimately 
jail  sentences,  parole,  reformatories.  ...  At  times  a  strange 
secretiveness  peered  out  of  their  childish  eyes.  .  .  .  The 
movements  of  their  men  companions  were  nervous  and 
jumpy  for  the  most  part.  The  dread  of  the  law  seemed  to 
hang  over  all.  ... 


Hilda  was  forgetting  what  little  practice  she  had  on  the 
writing  machine.  There  was  no  typewriter  and  no  bills  of 
fare  for  her  to  do  at  the  Jarvis.  The  place  was  run  on  a 
big  scale  and  the  menu  cards  were  printed.  Her  dream  of 
making  her  restaurant  job  a  stepping  stone  to  office  work, 
which  some  months  earlier  had  seemed  so  easy  of  achieve 
ment,  was  receding  into  an  inscrutable  distance.  .  .  .  She 
could  no  longer  cast  a  glamor  over  her  occupation.  ...  It 
was  becoming  plain  work  and  tips.  .  .  .  For  a  time  she  was 
thinking  whether  she  had  not  better  stick  to  it  at  that. 
.  .  .  She  was  earning  good  wages  and  her  hours  were 
short.  .  .  .  But  she  felt  that  she  would  never  have  ease  of 
mind  in  this  job.  .  .  .  She  had  once  heard  that  the  atmos 
phere  in  restaurants  is  not  always  of  the  best  for  a  girl.  .  .  . 


io8  THE   ROAD 

It  certainly  was  not  good  at  the  Jarvis.  .  .  ,  She  had  had 
her  fill  of  trouble;  she  wanted  no  more  of  it.  .  .  . 

The  factory  was  looming  before  her  eyes  once  more.  .  .  . 
Still  she  tried  a  department  store.  She  applied  for  a  place 
as  a  saleslady.  But  there  the  manager  asked  her  if  she 
was  living  with  her  family.  When  told  she  was  self-support 
ing  and  had  a  child,  he  looked  sympathetic,  but  "could  do 
nothing  for  her." 

Yes,  the  factory  apparently  was  her  only  goal.  .  .  ,  She 
was  resigning  herself  to  her  fate,  at  least  until  .  .  .  Yes, 
until  .  .  .  ?  Her  vision  of  what  was  to  come  after  the 
factory  was  too  vague  to  be  put  into  concrete  thoughts. 
.  .  .  She  was  faintly  dreaming.  .  .  . 

She  was  in  no  hurry  to  leave  the  restaurant.  She  would 
wait  until  her  child  was  at  least  one  year  old.  .  .  .  Little 
Raymond's  birthday  was  now  a  matter  of  weeks  only.  April 
was  under  way.  .  .  .  The  weather  was  superb.  .  .  . 

She  was  making  the  most  of  the  spring  weather  and  was 
glad  when  four  o'clock  came  and  she  quit  work.  Some 
times  she  would  rush  straight  from  work  to  the  day  nursery, 
take  her  child  and  go  to  the  park  with  him.  Then  again 
there  were  moods  when  she  wished  to  be  alone.  At  such 
times  she  would  walk  up  Fifth  Avenue  and  stroll  through 
Central  Park.  It  was  good  to  feel  the  green  grass  under 
her  feet. 


CHAPTER   IX 
LITTLE  RAYMOND'S  BIRTHDAY 

THE  night  which  preceded  her  child's  birthday  Hilda's 
sleep  was  broken  and  fitful.  Her  mind  was  fleeting  from 
memory  to  memory,  and  she  was  hovering  in  a  sea  of 
familiar  childhood  scenes.  Father,  mother,  the  Everts,  the 
•old  schoolhouse  on  the  hill — they  were  all  there,  in  their 
proper  places.  .  .  . 

Toward  morning  the  faces  and  scenes  disappeared,  all 
except  her  father.  His  image  she  retained  through  her 
dreams  and  waking.  .  .  .  Her  father  she  recalled  vividly; 
Carl  Thorsen  had  not  been  dead  so  very  long.  .  .  . 

If  her  father  had  only  lived,  she  was  half  thinking,  half 
dreaming.  ?  .  .  Her  father,  she  was  certain,  would  never 
have  given  her  up.  .  .  .  He  would  have  been  there  beside 
her,  played  with  her  baby.  .  .  .  He  would  have  loved  the 
child  and  approved  her  course — all  she  was  doing  for  it. 
.  .  .  Her  father  had  loved  her  so,  was  so  kind.  ,  .  . 

Just  before  waking  she  was  dreaming  of  Raymond  Evert. 
.  .  .  She  and  Raymond  were  standing  on  opposite  sides 
of  a  river.  .  .  .  From  the  river  a  vapory  wall  was  rising. 
...  Raymond  did  not  know  that  she  had  a  child,  that 
he  was  a  father,  and  she  was  trying  to  convey  the  infor 
mation  to  him.  .  .  .  She  was  shouting  at  the  top  of  her 

109 


no  THE   ROAD 

voice.  .  .  .  But  the  vapory  wall  distended.  She  was  now 
seeing  Raymond's  face  as  if  through  a  thick  glass.  After  a 
little  his  face  seemed  to  dissolve  itself  and  she  could  dis 
cern  only  tiny  specks  of  it  floating  about  here  and  there  in 
the  vapory  clouds.  .  .  .  She  ceased  seeing  him  alto 
gether.  .  .  . 

She  woke  early.  The  alarm  clock  had  not  rung  yet. 
The  child  was  sleeping  soundly.  She  lay  in  bed  for  some 
time  thinking  about  Raymond.  Would  he  ever  know  of 
the  child?  Would  she  tell  him?  Would  they  ever  meet? 
Would  they  .  .  .  ? 

She  had  much  to  do  that  day,  much  to  think  of,  and  she 
rose  and  dressed.  She  did  most  of  her  household  work  while 
the  child  was  still  sleeping.  When  he  woke,  his  break 
fast  was  ready  and  little  Raymond  ate  with  relish,  emitting 
a  series  of  pleased  childish  sounds  between  spoonfuls.  .  .  . 

"Yes,  yes,"  Hilda  was  saying  in  response  to  his  babbling. 
"I  know  all  about  it,  sonny.  Oh,  yes,  we're  getting  to  be  a 
great  big  boy.  We  are  one  year  old  to-day,  and  we  want 
some  presents.  Yes,  yes  we  shall  get  some  nice  birthday 
presents  to-day,  so  we  shall!" 

As  she  was  dressing  him  for  the  day  nursery,  the  child's 
face  became  serious.     It  always  did  before  parting.  .  .  . 
She  tickled  him  under  the  chin  and  he  laughed  once  more. 
The  smile  which  came  into  her  own  eyes  was  a  fleeting 
one;  it  died  before  it  had  fully  broken. 

When  the  child  was  ready  Hilda  stepped  up  to  the  mirror 
to  adjust  her  clothes  and  lingered  before  it  longer  than  was 
her  wont,  surveying  herself  dreamily.  She  had  been  a 
mother  for  one  whole  year,  and  for  nearly  two  months  she 


RAYMOND'S   BIRTHDAY          in 

had  been  keeping  house  for  herself  and  her  baby;  had  she 
changed  much? 

The  year  had  changed  Hilda  even  more  than  her  scrutiny 
of  herself  revealed.  It  had  given  her  a  certain  firmness 
physically,  which  she  had  before  possessed  merely  in  outline. 
Her  frame  was  wider.  She  had  weaned  the  child  three 
months  earlier,  but  her  breasts  had  retained  their  fullness. 
Her  chest  and  neck  were  stronger.  Into  her  face,  too,  a 
change  had  come,  especially  around  the  eyes.  She  had  not 
exactly  aged,  but  she  had  grown  maturer.  To  the  softness 
of  her  features  there  was  now  added  a  tint  of  ripeness.  Her 
youth  was  not  to  be  mistaken,  but  the  fact  that  she  was  a 
mother,  and  one  who  was  self-supporting,  impressed  itself 
just  as  strongly.  Her  gaze  was  deliberate,  her  movements 
definite.  There  was  a  solidity  about  her  person. 

She  was  planning  to  make  an  occasion  out  of  her  son's 
birthday.  Immediately  after  work  she  would  run  up  to  a 
department  store — there  would  still  be  time;  she  quit  at 
four — and  do  her  shopping.  She  would  get  the  child  some 
toys  and  a  pair  of  rompers.  It  would  be  his  first  pair  of 
rompers.  ...  He  was  a  little  too  young  for  them  yet,  but 
she  would  buy  them  anyway.  .  .  .  She  would  have  to  train 
him  to  be  a  little  man.  .  .  .  Soon  she  would  leave  him  for 
the  whole  day.  .  .  .  Soon.  .  .  . 

She  was  in  the  elevated  on  the  way  to  work  and  her 
thoughts  were  once  more  on  the  future.  Her  career  as  a 
waitress  was  at  an  end.  Her  leaving  the  restaurant  was 
only  a  question  of  days  now.  The  job  which  she  had  taken 
as  a  makeshift  had  served  its  purpose.  The  child  was  one 


ii2  THE   ROAD 

year  old  and  little  Raymond  had  done  in  that  year  far 
better  than  she  had  dared  dream.  He  was  not  only  a  well, 
normal  child,  but  at  the  clinic  he  had  been  called  a  model 
baby  and  the  doctor  had  congratulated  her.  .  .  . 

The  thought  of  the  factory,  however,  was  casting  a  gloom 
over  her.  Once  she  entered  it,  heaven  only  knew  when  she 
might  be  in  a  position  to  leave  it  again.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she 
had  after  all  better  hang  on  a  little  longer  to  the  restaurant 
job  and  make  another  attempt  to  get  into  some  occupation 
other  than  factory  work.  .  .  . 

But  it  was  to  be  the  factory  after  all.  3  .  . 

When  she  entered  the  restaurant  that  morning  she  found 
the  place  deserted,  except  for  two  or  three  waitresses,  a 
policeman,  and  a  man  of  unmistakable  detective  type. 
There  was  not  a  chauffeur  in  the  place.  The  police  officer 
and  the  detective  eyed  her  carefully,  but  the  manager  came 
up  and  spoke  to  them,  shaking  his  head  negatively,  where 
upon  the  two  soon  seemed  to  become  oblivious  of  her  pres 
ence  and  kept  on  looking  sharply  at  the  door.  .  .  . 

"What's  happened?"  Hilda  asked  one  of  the  waitresses, 
when  they  were  alone. 

For  an  answer  the  latter  pointed  to  a  lurid  headline  in  a 
morning  paper.  In  a  few  moments  Hilda  gleaned  the  de 
tails  of  a  murder  which  had  taken  place  on  the  block  the 
night  before.  Several  chauffeurs  had  been  arrested  as  ac 
complices.  The  names  of  the  chauffeurs,  their  first  names, 
at  any  rate,  were  familiar  to  her.  She  had  waited  on  them 
many  times.  They  were  steady  patrons  of  the  Jarvis.  Dick 
Malloy  was  among  those  arrested. 


RAYMOND'S  BIRTHDAY          113 

One  of  the  waitresses  in  the  place  had  also  been  taken 
in  custody.  She  was  held  as  a  material  witness. 

At  noon  the  policeman  went,  but  the  detective  remained, 
and  there  was  little  business  done  in  the  place.  It  was 
Friday,  the  day  the  help  were  being  paid.  Hilda  had  not 
thought  of  leaving  the  restaurant  at  once,  but  when  four 
o'clock  came  and  she  was  out  of  the  place  and  in  the  street 
she  realized  that  she  would  never  go  back  to  it;  she  would 
not  even  go  near  the  place  for  a  long  time  to  come.  .  .  . 

She  went  to  the  department  store  as  she  had  planned, 
and  purchased  the  toys  and  rompers  for  her  child,  and  in 
the  evening  she  made  a  pretense  at  celebrating  her  son's 
birthday.  When  she  grew  tired  of  the  pretense,  she  took 
the  child  in  her  arms  and  held  her  first  serious  conversation 
with  her  son,  she  of  course  doing  all  the  talking.  .  .  . 

She  was  telling  little  Raymond  the  things  that  were 
troubling  her.  .  .  .  She  was  telling  him  about  the  city.  .  .  3 
New  York  was  like  the  ocean.  There  were  all  sorts  of 
fishes  in  it;  all  sorts  of  people.  .  .  .  There  were  bad  people, 
men  who  preyed  upon  the  helpless  and  the  innocent,  who 
sought  to  destroy  them.  .  .  .  One  had  to  be  on  guard 
always  against  these  men.  .  .  .  She  was  on  guard  and  she 
would  shield  him — she  would  shield  herself.  She  would  not 
be  lured  by  ease.  .  .  .  She  would  sacrifice  comfort.  .  .  . 
No  work  would  be  too  heavy  for  her  in  the  future.  .  .  . 

The  child  was  accustomed  to  her  baby  talk  with  him  and 
knew  how  to  respond  to  her  smiles  and  caresses.  This, 
however,  was  something  different,  something  his  little  brain 
could  not  grasp.  .  .  .  He  looked  up  to  her  a  few  times  and 


ii4  THE   ROAD 

smiled.  But  there  was  no  encouragement  in  her  eyes.  .  .  . 
Her  sadness  finally  communicated  itself  to  the  infant.  His 
little  face  began  to  quiver  and  he  broke  out  in  a  loud  cry. 
Hilda  shook  off  her  mood,  kissed  away  the  child's  tears 
and  soon  crooned  him  into  a  peaceful  slumber.  It  was  well 
toward  midnight  by  the  time  she  herself  fell  into  an  ex 
hausted  sleep.  .  .  . 

In  Chicago  at  that  hour  Raymond  Evert  and  his  mother 
were  leaving  the  Community  House  in  the  Stockyard's 
district.  The  settlement's  educational  activities  among  im 
migrants  had  come  to  a  close  for  the  summer  and  the  event 
was  celebrated  with  a  reception  to  which  a  number  of 
people,  men  and  women  socially  prominent  had  been  in 
vited. 

Raymond  had  brought  his  mother  to  the  reception  at  the 
urgent  solicitation  of  Maude  Straight.  From  the  moment 
Mrs.  Evert  entered  until  she  left  she  was  made  to  feel  as 
if  she  were  the  guest  of  honor  of  the  occasion. 

Miss  Straight  never  left  her  side  for  an  instant.  Not  only 
was  she  accorded  a  glowing  reception,  but  her  heart  as  a 
mother  was  warmed  by  the  praise  which  her  son  was  given 
both  in  a  public  speech  and  by  a  number  of  guests  indi 
vidually.  They  praised  Raymond  highly  for  his  educa 
tional  efforts  among  the  poor  aliens. 

Mrs.  Evert  had  been  initiated  more  or  less  into  her  son's 
affairs  for  some  time.  Raymond  had  spoken  to  her  of  Miss 
Straight.  She  surmised  the  relations  between  the  settle 
ment  worker  and  her  son.  This  was  the  first  time  she  met 
her. 


RAYMOND'S   BIRTHDAY          115 

At  a  glance  Mrs.  Evert  saw  that  Miss  Straight  was  Ray 
mond's  senior  by  six  or  seven  years  and  she  was  thinking 
about  this  discrepancy  in  their  ages  all  the  way  home.  Ex 
cept  for  that  she  was  not  unkindly  disposed  to  Miss  Straight. 

Her  husband,  too,  had  been  invited  to  the  reception,  but 
his  going  was  out  of  the  question.  Henry  Evert's  illness  had 
progressed  rapidly  during  the  year.  There  was  a  leak  in 
his  heart  and  all  strain  had  become  increasingly  difficult 
for  him.  He  was  attending  to  business  scarcely  more  than 
an  hour  a  day  and  some  days  not  at  all. 

Mr.  Evert  was  waiting  for  his  wife  somewhat  impatiently. 
She  had  shared  with  him  her  surmises  about  Raymond's 
interest  in  Miss  Straight  and  he  now  wished  to  hear  more. 
In  spite  of  his  approaches  for  peace,  for  an  understanding 
with  his  son,  their  relations  were  never  quite  what  they 
had  been  before  the  episode  with  Hilda.  .  .  .  Raymond 
could  not  overcome  a  certain  shyness  for  his  father  and  Mr. 
Evert  had  come  to  depend  almost  entirely  upon  his  wife 
for  a  knowledge  of  the  things  his  son  was  thinking,  doing. 

This  grieved  him  sorely.  Raymond  was  his  youngest 
son,  the  only  one  whose  career  was  still  in  the  making,  to 
whom  his  wealth  might  still  mean  much  in  a  social  way — 
and  he  was  outside  the  boy's  confidence.  .  .  . 

When  Mrs.  Evert  reached  home  and  they  were  alone  in 
their  room  she  described  Miss  Straight  to  him,  appearance, 
age  and  all. 

"And  do  you  think  there  is  something  between  them?" 
her  husband  asked. 

"Why,  they  seem  very  friendly,"  she  answered. 

"They  are  friendly?" 


ii6  THE   ROAD 

"Yes,  I  think  she  likes  Raymond." 

"And  he?" 

Mrs.  Evert  hesitated  for  some  moments.  Finally  she 
spoke: 

"You  know  how  he's  been  in  the  past  two  years;  he's 
always  backward." 

A  silence  followed. 

"Do  you  think  she  is  the  proper  person  for  him  to  marry?" 
Evert  resumed. 

His  wife  had  anticipated  the  question.  She  had  been 
thinking  a  good  deal  about  it. 

"How  shall  I  say?"  she  began.  "Miss  Straight  is  not 
what  you  might  call  a  slip  of  a  girl.  She's  not  a  girl  just 
out  of  high  school.  She  is  a  lady.  They  say  her  father  is 
a  professor.  Anyway  she's  dignified.  She  has  the  school 
teacher  look  about  her.  You  would  take  her  to  be  a  prin 
cipal;  she's  that  earnest  at  times.  But  she's  pleasant  to 
talk  to  all  the  same  and  she  likes  Raymond.  You  can  see 
that.  .  ,  ." 

"I  suppose,"  Mrs.  Evert  continued  after  some  reflection, 
"if  their  ages  were  reversed,  if  she  were  say  twenty-five  and 
Raymond  were  thirty  or  thirty-one,  they  might  make  an 
ideal  couple.  ...  But  marriages  sometimes  come  out  well 
in  spite  of  such  discrepancies  in  age." 

"Yes—"  Evert  mused. 

"I  can't  say  I  relish  the  prospect  of  remaining  all  alone," 
she  began  after  a  silence.  "Nevertheless  I  would  like  to 
see  Raymond  married.  Maybe  he  would  lose  that  distracted 
look  of  his.  Maybe  she  would  change  him." 

"Why  remain  alone?"  Evert  asked.    "Why  could  not  they 


RAYMOND'S   BIRTHDAY]          117 

live  in  this  house  after  they  are  married.  The  house  is 
large  enough — " 

A  painful  look  came  into  Mrs.  E  vert's  face. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  "Miss  Straight  will  never  consent 
to  that.  She'll  never  leave  settlement  work  to  become  a 
housewife.  She's  not  that  type.  Raymond'll  be  following 
her,  not  she  him.  After  marriage,  too,  she  will  doubtlessly 
keep  up  the  work  she  is  doing." 

"You  mean — there  will  be  no  children — they  will  have 
no  children?"  Evert's  voice  had  a  hollow  ring. 

"Most  likely  not,"  his  wife  answered  with  a  tremor. 

"And  you  think  we  ought  not  to  object  to  Raymond  mar 
rying  her?" 

"I  think  we  better  not,"  she  counseled  earnestly.  "He 
seems  quite  at  home  in  the  settlement.  .  .  .  The  place  is 
always  active.  There  are  always  people  there  and  it  seems 
to  distract  him.  He  will  probably  be  as  happy  with  her  as 
he  ever  will  be  with  anybody.  ,  .  :•  I  think  we  had  better 
not  meddle.  .  .  ." 

Henry  Evert  made  no  answer. 

After  a  little  he  went  up  to  the  window,  pulled  down  the 
shade  and  then  got  into  bed. 

They  lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  but  neither  of  them  spoke. 
Each  was  wondering  whether  the  other  was  sleeping.  .  .  . 


Maude  Straight,  after  Raymond  and  his  mother  had  left 
the  settlement  that  evening,  felt  the  need  of  talking  to 
some  one.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  go  to  her  room  and 
write  to  an  aunt  in  Detroit.  Her  girl  friends,  those  with 


ii8  THE   ROAD 

whom  she  was  wont  to  share  her  confidences,  were  either 
married  and  occupied  with  family  cares  for  years  now,  or 
else  had  completely  surrendered  themselves  to  their  careers 
of  teaching.  .  .  .  Her  father,  Charles  Browne  Straight,  was 
a  professor  emeritus  at  Ann  Arbor  and  was  nearly  eighty 
years  old.  She  could  not  write  to  him  the  things  she  wished 
to  speak  of.  ...  The  impulse  to  write  flickered  out 
quickly. 

She  decided  on  a  walk,  and  was  going  to  call  one  of  the 
other  young  women  residents.  But  in  this,  too,  she  changed 
her  mind.  Instead  she  called  a  Finnish  girl,  who  was  doing 
the  work  of  a  maid,  but  who,  in  accordance  with  the  demo 
cratic  rules  of  the  settlement  house,  had  the  status  of  a 
resident,  to  go  with  her.  They  strolled  through  the  dark 
streets  of  the  neighborhood  for  some  time. 

Neither  of  them  said  much.  Miss  Straight  would  not 
condescend  to  discuss  intimate  affairs  with  the  immigrant 
girl  and  the  girl  was  too  shy  to  start  a  conversation. 

The  streets  were  deserted.  They  were  in  the  heart  of  a 
workingmen's  district  and  folks  went  to  bed  early.  Here 
and  there,  however,  a  pair  of  lovers  could  be  seen  standing, 
clinging  to  each  other  in  a  parting  embrace.  The  Finnish 
girl  began  to  hum  something  softly. 

Miss  Straight  did  not  disturb  her  for  some  time.  But 
the  monotone  of  the  melody  finally  took  hold  of  her.  There 
was  a  strange  swaying  quality  in  it,  like  the  mourning  for 
something  irretrievably  lost — lost  youth,  lost  happiness,  lost 
love.  .  .  . 

"What  is  it  you  are  singing?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  that,"  the  girl  said  with  slight  embarrassment,  ''that's 


RAYMOND'S   BIRTHDAY          119 

a  verse  from  an  old  song.    My  mother  used  to  sing  it  when 
I  was  a  child.    I  know  only  that  one  verse." 

Miss  Straight  asked  her  to  translate  it.  The  verse  ran  as 
follows: 

"0  you  clime  and  city  distant, 
O  you  dear  and  native  shore, 

0  you  maiden  of  my  homeland, 

1  cannot  sleep  for  love  of  you." 

They  started  for  home.  Miss  Straight  was  thinking  of 
Raymond  Evert.  He  would  never  pine  for  her  like  that.  .  .  . 
He  had  a  tender  heart,  that  she  knew.  He  loved  children, 
babies.  ...  He  could  look  at  them  for  hours.  .  .  .  But  he 
was  not  a  lover.  ...  He  was  not  showing  her  any  tender 
ness.  ...  If  she  made  no  attempt  to  keep  him  he  would 
drift  away.  .  .  .  Was  it  her  fault?  Was  it  .  .  .  ? 

It  had  been  thus  with  her  always,  ever  since  she  was  in 
high  school,  ever  since  she  was  a  little  girl.  The  boys  always 
said  "hello"  and  passed  her  by.  And  yet  she  was  good 
looking,  better  looking  than  some  of  the  other  girls  who  were 
sought  after.  And  she  was  smarter  than  they.  .  .  .  Was  it 
her  fault?  Or  was  it  maybe  because  her  parents  had  married 
so  late  in  life?  Her  mother  was  forty,  her  father  a  few 
years  older  when  they  married.  .  .  .  Was  it  that? 

They  had  reached  the  house. 

When  she  was  in  her  room  she  slipped  into  a  soft  silk 
kimono  and  stood  a  long  time  before  the  mirror.  .  .  .  With 
out  her  corset  and  with  her  hair  loose,  without  the  artificial 
vivacity  and  smile  which  she  put  on  every  morning  as  one 


120  THE   ROAD 

does  a  dress,  and  did  not  take  off  again  until  she  was  alone 
in  her  room,  she  looked  her  age — her  full  thirty- two  years. 
.  .  .  She  was  wondering  how  she  and  Raymond  would  look 
as  husband  and  wife. 
She  sighed.  .  .  i 


CHAPTER   X 
WORK 

WHEN  the  following  Monday,  after  a  lapse  of  thirteen 
months,  Hilda  Thorsen  stood  within  half  a  block  of  the  four 
story  structure  occupied  by  the  Alaska  Knitting  Works,  her 
heart  sank  within  her.  The  sight  of  the  familiar  gray  walls 
and  small  paned  windows  startled  her  as  if  from  a  deep  sleep. 
Where  was  she  going?  What  was  she  doing? 

It  had  rained  incessantly  the  Saturday  and  Sunday  after 
she  had  left  the  employ  of  the  Jarvis  restaurant,  and,  in  the 
two  dreary  days  she  had  spent  in  the  tenement  alone  with  her 
thoughts,  she  decided  to  go  back  to  the  knitting  factory,  the 
only  place  she  had  known  and  worked  in  in  New  York. 
It  at  least  had  the  merit  of  being  familiar.  ...  As  she  stood 
within  sight  of  it,  however,  the  factory  dropped  the  halo 
which  she  had  cast  over  it  in  those  two  lonely  days,  and 
with  vivid  painfulness  Hilda  recalled  the  dungeon-like  quali 
ties  of  the  establishment. 

The  Alaska  Knitting  Works  was  located  on  the  edge  of 
the  East  River  in  a  building  that  had  been  erected  at  the 
time  of  the  Civil  War.  While  many  similar  structures  in 
its  vicinity  had  long  ago  yielded  up  their  ghost  under  the 
hammers  of  the  wrecking  crew,  making  way  for  steamship 
piers,  huge  warehouses  and  gigantic  oil  tanks,  the  Alaska 
building  maintained  itself.  With  hardly  any  alterations 

121 


122  THE   ROAD 

or  changes  it  managed  to  adapt  itself  to  the  drive  of  present- 
day  machinery  and  thus  continued  to  justify  its  existence. 

The  street  in  front  of  it  bustled  with  life.  Big  automo 
bile  trucks  hurried  to  and  from  the  piers.  Seamen,  long 
shoremen,  day  laborers  of  every  description,  were  coming 
and  going  in  a  steady  stream.  A  number  of  men  had 
stopped  to  look  at  the  young  woman  who  was  standing  on 
the  sidewalk,  staring  intently  ahead.  But  Hilda  did  not  no 
tice  them.  She  was  oblivious  of  every  one  and  everything 
about  her.  She  was  gazing  at  the  factory  and  thinking  of 
the  work,  the  hours  in  it. 

They  began  the  day  at  the  Alaska  Knitting  Works  at 
seven  in  the  morning.  There  was  half  an  hour  for  lunch 
and  then  it  was  work  again  until  five-thirty  in  the  evening, 
when  the  ten-hour  day  was  at  an  end.  She  recalled  vividly 
what  a  nightmare  this  having  to  be  at  the  factory  at  seven 
sharp  was  to  her.  If  they  had  only  made  it  seven-thirty, 
she  had  often  wished.  What  a  difference  that  half  hour 
would  have  made.  One  could  do  up  one's  hair  properly 
and  eat  a  half  decent  breakfast.  The  half  hour  would  make 
an  even  greater  difference  now  that  she  had  a  child. 

No,  the  knitting  factory  was  out  of  the  question  for  her 
now;  she  could  not  possibly  go  back  to  it  again.  She 
started  away  from  it,  but  changed  her  mind.  She  was  there 
in  front  of  the  factory  already.  Hadn't  she  better  go 
through  with  her  program  and  let  there  be  no  more  illu 
sions.  .  .  .  She  would  go  in  and  see  what  work,  what 
wages  they  would  offer  her. 

In  front  of  the  familiar  side  door  she  hesitated  an  in 
stant,  and  then  quickly  walked  up  the  flight  of  stairs  to  the 


WORK  123 

office.  The  name  of  the  foreman  she  had  worked  for — 
Scheibe — came  to  her.  She  asked  for  Mr.  Scheibe. 

The  foreman  did  not  recognize  her  at  once.  When  she 
had  exchanged  a  few  words  with  him  and  refreshed  his 
memory  he  recalled  her.  He  gazed  at  her  with  an  expres 
sion  of  surprise. 

"You  wish  to  come  back  to  work  here?"  he  repeated, 
thinking  that  perhaps  he  had  not  caught  the  drift  of  Hilda's 
talk.  The  usual  course  for  a  girl  who  once  left  the  Alaska 
Knitting  Works  was  never  to  show  her  face  again  there. 

Hilda  nodded  assent. 

"And  you  have  a  baby  now?" 

That  too  she  affirmed.    She  had  a  year  old  baby. 

The  foreman  was  a  Swiss  by  birth.  He  was  exacting 
with  his  employees — it  was  his  business  to  be  so — but  he 
was  also  human.  Hilda  seemed  troubled  and  bewildered. 
The  fact  that  she  came  to  him  when  she  was  troubled  and 
that  she  remembered  his  name,  both  touched  and  flattered 
him. 

"What  seems  to  be  the  matter  with  restaurant  work?" 
he  asked,  and  there  was  a  note  of  fellowship  in  his  voice 
which  stirred  Hilda  deeply.  Since  her  break  with  the  Whites 
and  with  Mrs.  Vasek  no  one  had  talked  to  her  that  way. 
She  was  about  to  tell  him  what  her  objections  to  the 
waitress  job  were,  but  checked  herself  in  time.  After  all 
the  foreman  was  a  stranger  to  her.  Besides,  he  was  a  busy 
man.  That  was  not  the  time  for  long  conversations.  She 
sighed. 

Mr.  Scheibe  knew  something  of  life  and  of  the  city.  He 
gave  more  than  one  interpretation  to  her  sigh. 


124  THE   ROAD 

"You  are  not  broke?"  he  asked  a  bit  anxiously. 

She  assured  him  she  was  not  broke. 

"Well,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  relief,  "if  you  really  want 
to  work  here  I'll  give  you  a  job.  But — frankly — I  don't 
think  this  is  the  place  for  you  now.  You  have  a  child  and 
you  are  likely  to  need  work  for  some  years  to  come;  why 
not  get  into  an  occupation  that  has  a  future.  There's  no 
future  in  this — " 

The  door  leading  into  the  factory  opened  and  a  face 
peered  in.  The  foreman  was  wanted  inside. 

"All  right,"  Mr.  Scheibe  said  over  his  shoulder.  "I'll 
be  there  directly." 

Turning  to  Hilda  he  continued  speaking  rapidly. 

"Why  don't  you  try  the  clothing  trades,  waists,  dresses? 
Several  girls  have  left  here  recently  to  go  into  the  clothing 
trades." 

She  said  something  about  having  to  start  as  a  beginner 
there  and  not  being  paid  while  learning. 

"That  is  only  a  matter  of  weeks,"  the  foreman  said  depre- 
catingly.  "It  isn't  a  loss,  but  an  investment  and  you'll 
get  further  in  the  end  by  making  this  investment." 

There  was  another  call  from  the  factory. 

"If  you  cannot  get  located,"  Mr.  Scheibe  spoke,  holding 
the  door  to  the  factory  half  open,  so  that  Hilda  got  a  glimpse 
of  the  familiar  workroom  and  heard  the  clank  of  the  ma 
chinery,  "come  back  and  I'll  find  something  for  you." 

In  the  street  again  Hilda  felt  as  if  a  great  weight  had 
rolled  off  her  shoulders.  Her  venture  into  the  past  was 
ended — happily  ended.  The  conversation  with  the  foreman 
had  sent  a  flood  of  courage  coursing  through  her  veins.  Mr. 


WORK  125 

Scheibe  had  talked  to  her  as  to  an  equal.  He  respected 
her,  had  faith  in  her.  .  .  .  The  world  apparently  was  not 
worrying  about  her  past.  ...  If  she,  too,  could  only  forget 
it.  ... 

She  recalled  that  she  had  not  even  thanked  him  for  his 
kind  words  and  was  sorry. 

After  she  had  gone  some  distance,  she  stopped  and  looked 
back  upon  the  gray  structure.  She  felt  that  she  was  seeing 
it  for  the  last  time.  ...  It  was  going  out  of  her  life,  and 
with  it  a  large  part  of  the  past  was  swimming  out  of  her 
horizon.  .  .  .  She  recalled  the  day  in  October  shortly  after 
her  arrival  from  Chicago  when  she  first  came  to  this  build 
ing.  A  cold  drizzly  rain  was  falling  and  her  thoughts  were 
as  cheerless  as  the  weather.  .  .  . 

She  had  spent  seven  months  at  the  factory.  It  seemed 
almost  incredible  that  she  and  the  Hilda  of  those  seven 
months  were  one  and  the  same.  .  .  .  She  had  been  so  afraid 
then.  .  .  .  She  wa£  not  afraid  now,  not  in  the  least  afraid. 
She  had  a  child  and  she  had  not  become  an  outcast.  .  .  . 
She  had  not  become  a  Pearl  Whitney,  a  pariah  for  every 
one  to  trample  under  foot.  .  .  .  And  she  never  would. 
There  was  no  reason  for  it.  She  was  not  in  Stillwell.  She 
was  in  New  York.  .  .  . 

An  elevated  train  became  visible  in  the  distance  and  her 
eye  followed  it  gratefully  until  the  string  of  cars  was  lost  to 
view.  There  was  so  much  security  in  the  vast  distances  the 
train  covered,  in  the  millions  of  people  it  scattered  in  the 
morning  and  gathered  together  in  the  evening.  .  .  .  Security 
for  herself,  for  her  child.  .  .  . 


126  THE   ROAD 

She  had  reached  the  elevated  structure  at  Third  Avenue 
and  Twenty-third  Street  and  was  thinking  where  to  go  next. 
She  had  some  addresses  of  factories  which  advertised  for 
help  that  morning,  but  there  was  no  use  going  there  at  least 
for  an  hour.  It  was  dinner  time. 

After  the  rain  of  the  preceding  two  days  a  warm  sun 
had  come  out  and  was  imparting  a  cheerfulness  to  every 
thing  it  touched.  The  tenements  seemed  to  relax  their  stern, 
gloomy  aspect.  Aged,  gray  men  and  women  were  coming 
out  of  these  tenements  and  strolling  up  and  down  the  street, 
warming  their  bent  backs  and  rheumatic  joints.  From  a 
factory  a  swarm  of  girls  were  dropped  to  the  sidewalk  by 
an  elevator  and  they  stood  there,  basking  in  the  sun  and 
chatting  gleefully. 

Babies  were  toddling  on  the  sidewalk  while  their  mothers 
kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  them.  .  .  .  Hilda  thought  of  her 
child.  .  .  .  They  were  probably  giving  him  his  dinner  at 
the  nursery  now  and  then  they  would  undress  him  and  put 
him  in  his  bed  for  a  nap.  He  would  whimper  a  little.  He 
always  did  when  they  put  him  to  sleep.  ... 

As  she  stood  reflecting  an  Italian  carrying  a  huge  basket 
of  lilacs  ran  plumb  into  her.  Before  she  recovered  from 
the  impact  the  man  had  disappeared,  but  the  fragrance  of 
the  lilacs  lingered.  She  became  poignantly  aware  that  it 
was  spring — spring.  .  .  .  The  lilac  trees  were  blooming. 
.  .  .  The  fields  were  green.  .  .  .  She  was  swayed  by  a 
strange  gentleness.  .  .  . 

With  her  new  job,  whatever  that  prove  to  be,  there  was 
a  long  workday  in  store  for  herself,  a  long  day  for  her 
child.  ...  It  would  mean  nine  to  ten  hours  for  her  in  the 


WORK  127 

factory,  ten  to  eleven  hours  for  the  child  in  the  nursery. 
...  A  sudden  resolution  flashed  upon  her.  .  .  . 

The  afternoon  would  most  likely  be  wasted  anyway;  the 
morning  was  the  only  real  time  to  look  for  work.  Why  not 
devote  the  afternoon  to  the  babe?  She  would  take  him  to 
Central  Park.  She  would  surprise  him.  ...  If  she  hurried 
she  would  still  find  him  awake.  .  .  . 

She  ran  up  the  stairs  to  the  elevated  train  with  a  zest 
and  exuberance  which  was  a  surprise  even  to  herself.  She 
had  not  felt  so  lighthearted  in  nearly  two  years.  .  .  .  She 
was  wondering  whether  she  ought  not  to  reproach  herself 
for  such  levity,  but  the  thought  of  reproach  was  short 
lived.  .  .  . 

Her  blood  was  hot  and  the  wind  from  the  East  River  and 
beyond  it  was  cool.  It  seemed  to  her  there  was  a  fragrance 
of  lilac  in  the  breeze.  She  did  not  go  into  the  car  but  re 
mained  standing  on  the  platform.  .  .  . 

A  tune  she  and  Raymond  were  very  fond  of  two  summers 
earlier  and  which  they  had  often  hummed  together  on  their 
walks  was  welling  up  in  her  throat.  .  .  .  Into  her  eyes  a 
wistful  look  came  and  a  tender  pain  began  to  steal  into 
her  heart. 


"Sixteen,  seventeen,  eighteen — " 

There  were  several  more  stories  to  the  building,  but  Hilda, 
standing  on  the  curb  across  the  street  from  it,  counted  no 
more.  Neither  in  Chicago  nor  in  New  York  had  she  ever 
worked  in  a  skyscraper  before.  She  was  quite  awed  and 
was  about  to  pass  on  and  to  look  for  the  next  place  on  the 


128  THE   ROAD 

list  of  advertisements  she  had  marked  that  morning.    But 
she  did  not;  she  held  council  with  herself. 

A  stream  of  people  was  coming  in  and  out  of  the  sky 
scraper.  The  brass  plates  on  either  side  of  the  entrance 
announced  the  various  shops  and  factories  which  had  their 
location  in  the  building.  The  likelihood  was,  she  reasoned 
with  herself,  that  the  other  factories  on  her  list  were  located 
in  buildings  that  were  just  as  tall.  If  she  had  meant  to 
find  work  in  the  clothing  trades  she  had  better  make  up  her 
mind  to  submit  to  the  conditions  in  the  trade. 

She  entered  the  building. 

"On  the  eleventh  floor,  ma'am,"  the  negro  elevator  man 
informed  her  when  she  enquired  for  the  Princess  Waist 
and  Dress  Company.  She  did  not  resemble  the  girls 
who  came  in  search  of  jobs,  and  he  was  polite  and  atten 
tive. 

The  elevator  opened  directly  into  an  offce.  There  were 
rugs  on  the  floor — green  plush.  In  the  center  of  the  room 
was  a  mahogany  table  with  chairs  to  match.  To  one  side, 
behind  a  glass  partition,  a  girl  sat  at  a  desk,  typing. 
Through  a  half-open  door  Hilda  caught  a  glimpse  of  an 
other  room  with  glass  showcases  which  displayed  a  variety 
of  waists  and  dresses. 

There  girls  in  clinging  skirts,  high-heeled  shoes,  and  elab 
orate  coiffures  idled  about  chairs  and  lounges.  It  was  the 
company's  show  room  and  buyers  did  not  begin  to  come 
until  a  little  before  eleven. 

The  girl  who  was  sitting  at  the  typewriter  inside  the  glass 
partition  came  out  and  smiling  pleasantly  asked  what  she 
could  do  for  her. 


WORK  129 

Hilda  held  out  the  advertisement  in  the  morning  paper 
calling  for  help. 

The  smile  on  the  girl's  face  instantly  changed  to  a  grimace. 

"The  factory  is  on  the  floor  below;  this  is  the  office," 
she  spoke  with  an  injured  air.  "You  should  have  told  the 
elevator  man  you  were  looking  for  work." 

Hilda  apologized  for  the  mistake. 

"No  harm,"  the  girl  was  now  showing  her  magnanimity. 
"Just  walk  down  a  flight  of  stairs,  this  way,  yes,  and  enter 
the  door  on  your  left." 

Before  the  door  on  the  left  had  had  time  to  close  behind 
Hilda's  back  an  office  boy  with  curly  black  hair  and  quick 
darting  eyes  was  at  her  side.  Would  she  sit  down  on  one 
of  the  benches;  Mrs.  Walsh  would  be  out  directly.  He  gave 
her  no  chance  to  say  anything  about  the  advertisement, 
about  work.  He  knew  that  she  wanted  work.  Only  those 
looking  for  work  came  through  that  door. 

Mrs.  Walsh  was  a  woman  of  forty.  She  was  not  the 
typical  forelady.  She  was  not  round  of  figure;  her  com 
plexion  was  not  florid.  On  the  contrary  she  was  rather  thin 
and  had  soft  and  delicate  features.  She  used  no  powder 
and  her  gaze  was  like  that  of  a  man — businesslike. 

She  surveyed  Hilda  with  a  feeling  of  surprise  and  curios 
ity. 

"How  did  you  come  here?"  she  snapped,  and  smiled  at 
her  own  impulsiveness.  She  had  not  intended  to  ask  the 
question,  but  it  slipped  her  tongue.  Hilda  explained  that 
she  had  come  in  response  to  the  advertisement  in  the  morn 
ing  paper.  The  forelady's  smile  deepened;  it  was  not  this 
she  had  meant  with  her  question. 


uo  THE   ROAD 

In  the  several  years  which  she  had  been  connected  with 
the  Princess  Waist  Company  Mrs.  Walsh  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  deal  with  Jewish,  Italian,  Bohemian  girls.  Never 
yet  in  all  her  experience  had  an  American  girl  applied  for 
the  work  Hilda  was  applying  for, — not  office  work,  not  being 
a  model,  but  common  work  at  the  machine.  And  Hilda  was 
unmistakably  American,  an  American  of  the  middle  west 
country,  which  Mrs.  Walsh  had  known  in  other  days. 

"You've  never  worked  in  the  clothing  trades  before?" 
she  was  making  sure  of  her  diagnosis. 

Hilda  told  her  that  her  experience  in  factory  work  was 
limited  to  the  knitting  trade.  Looking  frankly  at  Mrs. 
Walsh  she  added: 

"I'm  told  that  there's  a  future  in  the  clothing  trade  and 
I  should  like  to  get  into  it.  I  am  self-supporting  and  have 
a  child  to  look  after.  I  want  to  get  into  something  that  is 
steady." 

"Oh,"  was  all  the  comment  the  forelady  made.  Her 
face  became  serious.  She  had  a  consumptive  husband  whose 
life  she  was  trying  to  save  by  keeping  him  in  a  sanitarium. 
Her  two  little  girls  were  staying  with  her  husband's  parents 
in  Connecticut  so  that  she  could  spend  every  cent  she  saved 
on  their  father.  She  understood  Hilda's  desire  for  steady 
work. 

Mrs.  Walsh  was  not  in  the  habit  of  taking  much  time 
-with  the  help  she  hired ;  it  was  "yes"  or  "no"  rather  briefly. 
But  this  was  a  different  matter.  Hilda  was  her  kind,  she  was 
of  her  class.  She  was  an  American  and  a  Christian — it  made 
a  difference.  She  was  thinking. 


WORK  131 

Finally  she  outlined  the  nature  of  the  work  to  her. 
The  clothing  industry  had  an  undoubted  future.  This,  how 
ever,  was  not  saying  that  every  worker  in  it  had  a  future. 
.  .  .  Still  it  was  not  a  bad  trade.  There  were  plenty  of 
shops  and  work  was  not  hard  to  find. 

After  the  rebuff  by  the  office  girl  on  the  floor  above,  and 
the  uncanny  and  wordless  reception  by  the  curly-headed 
office  boy,  Mrs.  Walsh's  words  and  presence  felt  like  home  to 
Hilda.  She  decided  to  cast  her  lot  with  her,  with  the 
Princess  Waist  Company. 

The  forelady  showed  Hilda  where  to  hang  her  clothes. 
As  an  afterthought  she  added: 

"I'll  do  the  best  I  can  for  you.  We  don't  as  a  rule  pay 
learners,  but  I  shall  see  if  we  can't  pay  you  something  from 
the  start." 

From  the  dressing  room  the  door  led  into  the  factory. 
The  impression  which  Hilda  got  of  the  place  was  that  of  a 
huge  cobweb.  From  wall  to  wall,  from  floor  to  ceiling  the 
loft  seemed  one  tangle  of  lingerie,  silk,  voiles,  paper  pat 
terns.  There  were  long  lines  of  machines,  and  bending  over 
these  machines  and  manipulating  them  were  heads,  shoul 
ders,  arms.  The  faces  of  the  workers  were  buried  in  the 
cloth.  .  .  .  The  odor  of  fresh  materials  mixed  with  the  odor 
of  machine  oil  and  human  sweat. 

Mrs.  Walsh's  eyes,  which  had  been  gliding  over  the  lanes 
of  machines,  finally  lighted  upon  the  subject  sought,  a 
middle-aged  Italian  woman.  Because  of  the  noise  from  the 
machines  Hilda  could  not  hear  the  conversation  between  the 
forelady  and  the  woman.  In  a  few  minutes  everything  was 


132  THE   ROAD 

settled  between  them.  Hilda  and  the  Italian  woman  were  in 
troduced  to  each  other;  the  woman  was  to  teach  her  the 
trade. 

Half  an  hour  was  gone  before  Hilda  was  able  to  thread 
the  machine  herself.  With  that  achieved  she  was  shown 
how  to  set  it  in  operation  by  pressing  her  foot  down  on 
the  pedal — and  how  to  stop  it  by  lifting  her  foot.  Some 
where  between  these  two  processes  lay  varying  degrees  of 
speed  whose  regulation  she  would  learn  little  by  little. 

In  an  hour  she  was  sewing  straight  seams,  which,  how 
ever,  did  not  always  come  out  very  straight  because  her 
brain  seemed  too  much  concerned  with  the  manipulations  of 
her  foot  on  the  pedal.  Finally  she  seemed  to  be  taking 
hold  of  things.  But  just  as  she  was  getting  herself  set  and 
ready  for  the  making  of  straight  seams  the  power  was 
turned  off.  It  was  noon;  all  work  ceased. 

The  shop  assumed  a  new  aspect.  The  noise  from  the 
machines  stopped  and  in  its  place  there  arose  a  human 
buzzing.  The  girls,  and  here  and  there  a  man,  were  losing 
no  time  in  getting  to  their  lunch  or  in  getting  out  of  the 
place.  Hilda  was  caught  in  the  stream.  There  was  chatter 
all  about  her  in  Yiddish,  Italian,  Bohemian.  They  had 
forty-five  minutes  for  lunch.  Many  of  the  girls  went  down 
for  their  meals  to  restaurants  and  the  elevator  was  jammed. 

When  she  was  in  the  street  Hilda  stood  still  for  some 
moments  trying  to  puzzle  out  her  own  thoughts  and  sensa 
tions. 

"Aren't  you  acquainted  hereabouts?"  a  young  woman 
smilingly  asked  her.  "If  you  aren't,  come  with  me.  There's 
a  nice  restaurant  around  the  corner." 


WORK  133 

Hilda  had  seen  the  young  woman  in  the  shop.  They 
were  facing  each  other  across  two  rows  of  machines  and 
the  young  woman  had  been  gazing  at  her  not  unpleasantly 
all  morning.  She  went  with  her. 

"This  is  your  first  day  in  the  shop?"  her  new  acquaintance 
remarked. 

"Yes,  I'm  altogether  new  in  the  trade,"  Hilda  answered. 

"There's  not  much  to  learn.  In  three  or  four  weeks  you 
will  be  doing  as  well  as  any  of  us;  it's  largely  a  matter  of 
speed,"  the  former  said  cheerfully. 

"I  suppose,"  the  young  woman  smiled  at  Hilda,  "you 
were  wondering  what  I  was  staring  at  you  for  all  morning. 
I  hope  you'll  forgive  me,  but  it  seemed  to  me  you  were 
British  and  I  was  curious.  I  came  from  London  myself." 

Hilda  said  she  was  American. 

When  they  were  near  the  restaurant  the  other  spoke  up> 
blinking  with  faint  embarrassment: 

"We're  not  yet  introduced,  are  we?  My  name  is  Mrs, 
Breen,  Ada  Breen." 

"Mrs.  Thorsen  is  my  name." 

They  looked  each  other  over  again.  Each  was  wondering 
what  brought  the  other  to  the  factory,  and  each  decided 
that  she  would  like  the  other.  .  .  . 

By  three  o'clock  Hilda  had  lost  hope  of  ever  getting  used 
to  the  machine,  to  the  work.  Her  neck  and  shoulders  ached 
and  she  moved  her  arms  with  difficulty.  Her  right  foot  was 
numbed  by  the  vibrations  of  the  electric  motor.  As  the  af 
ternoon  wore  on  the  pain  extended  downwards  from  her 
ishoulders  to  the  small  of  her  back.  She  began  to  think 


134  THE    ROAD 

that  perhaps  after  all  the  clothing  trade  was  an  occupation 
only  foreigners  could  work  in.  ...  Maybe  their  constitu 
tions  were  different.  .  .  .  She  was  apparently  only  wasting 
her  time  there.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  was  wasting  her  time.  .  .  . 

Her  brain  was  hazy  and  she  was  keeping  at  her  work 
mechanically.  For  some  time  she  wondered  whether  she 
had  not  better  stop  there  and  then,  and  explain  the  situa 
tion  to  Mrs.  Walsh,  whom  she  had  seen  flitting  about  the 
floor.  .  .  . 

Her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  restaurant,  not  the  Jarvis 
place,  but  to  the  other  place  on  Fourth  Avenue,  the  one 
that  had  had  the  typewriter  upon  which  she  typed  the  bills 
of  fare.  .  .  .  She  was  thinking  that  she  had  not  been  just 
to  the  restaurant  business.  .  .  .  She  had  come  into  it  with 
an  antipathy  and  was  only  looking  at  the  dark  side  of 
things.  Of  course  the  Jarvis  was  no  place  for  her.  .  .  . 
But  there  must  be  family  restaurants  in  New  York  where 
things  were  different  than  at  the  Jarvis.  .  .  .  Yes,  she 
would  have  to  look  for  such  a  family  restaurant.  .  .  .  Her 
experiment  at  the  waist  shop  was  a  failure,  an  all  around 
failure.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  such  musings  that  Mrs.  Walsh 
found  her  just  before  closing  time.  The  forelady  picked 
up  the  pieces  of  material  Hilda  had  been  sewing  and  exam 
ined  them  critically.  .  .  . 

Hilda  stood  aside  indifferently.  It  was  all  the  same  to 
her  now;  her  experiment  in  the  shop  was  over.  .  .  . 

"You  are  doing  pretty  well,"  the  forelady  said  with  a  gaze 
of  satisfaction. 

Hilda  heard  her  words  only  distantly.    There  was  a  fixed, 


WORK  135 

faraway  look  in  her  eyes.  .  .  .  She  was  still  thinking  of  the 
restaurant. 

Mrs.  Walsh  looked  puzzled.  A  glint  of  suspicion  came 
into  her  eyes.  Had  she  wasted  her  time  on  the  girl  for 
nothing? 

"Will  you  be  coming  back  in  the  morning?"  she  asked. 

Hilda  took  a  sudden  drop  to  reality. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  hastily,  "yes." 

The  day  at  the  machine  had  cast  a  perceptible  paleness 
over  her  features.  Her  face  was  decidedly  thinner. 

As  soon  as  she  stepped  out  of  the  loft  building  and  was 
in  the  street  again  she  forgot  her  aches  and  pains  and  started 
for  the  elevated  at  a  rush.  There  was  quite  a  walk  to  the 
nearest  station,  and  there  was  an  even  greater  distance  from 
the  end  of  her  elevated  journey  to  the  day  nursery  where 
the  child  was  waiting  for  her. 

The  train,  as  was  usual  at  that  hour,  was  crowded  to  the 
brim  with  tired,  irritated  men  and  women  on  their  way 
home  from  work.  A  mixed  odor  of  garlic,  sweat  and  powder 
cut  her  breath  short,  but  she  kept  on  wedging  and  sidling 
her  way  until  she  reached  an  open  window.  There  she  re 
mained  standing,  determined  not  to  be  dislodged.  From 
the  window  she  commanded  a  view  of  the  endless  string  of 
tenement  houses,  which  were  swiftly  receding  behind  the 
onrushing  train.  Her  thoughts  were  fixed  on  the  stations. 

It  was  a  quarter  after  six  when,  flushed  from  the  rapid 
walk,  Hilda  finally  entered  the  nursery.  The  official  day  at 
the  nursery  ended  at  five-thirty.  Below  in  the  hall,  how 
ever,  there  was  a  wide  bench  upon  which  the  children  whose 


136  THE   ROAD 

mothers  could  not  call  for  them  till  six  or  a  little  later  were 
seated,  dressed  and  ready  to  be  taken  away  by  the  parent. 

Hilda  was  the  last  to  come  and  little  Raymond  was  sit 
ting  on  the  bench  alone.  A  rubber  doll  lay  near  him  but  he 
paid  no  attention  to  it.  He  sat  moping,  his  chin  bowed  to 
his  breast.  Catching  sight  of  his  mother,  his  sullenness  dis 
appeared.  He  started  to  smile,  but  on  the  way  the  smile 
metamorphosed  itself  into  a  twitching  of  the  lips.  He  was 
crying  like  one  hurt,  offended.  .  .  . 

She  kissed  his  tears  away,  drove  the  frowns  from  the 
little  face,  and  started  home  at  a  run,  as  if  the  ground  were 
burning  under  her  feet.  .  .  . 

She  was  wet  with  perspiration,  her  clothes  were  wilted, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  the  months  she  had  been  living 
alone  Hilda  now  appreciated  the  privacy  of  her  little  flat. 
She  drew  the  half  curtain  across  the  window,  and  standing 
before  the  sink,  naked  from  her  waist  up,  she  let  the  cold 
water  run  over  her  arms,  her  neck.  As  she  washed,  she 
was  talking  to  the  child,  and  little  Raymond  enjoyed  hugely 
the  sight  of  his  mother's  face  brimming  at  him  through  soap 
suds. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  had  her  half  pound  of  steak  broil 
ing  on  the  fire  and  potatoes  frying  in  the  pan  alongside  of 
it.  She  did  not  sit  down  to  eat,  however,  until  after  the 
child  had  been  fed  and  was  sitting  in  his  high  chair,  smiling 
contentedly. 

After  the  day  at  the  machine  her  body  was  crying  out 
for  a  walk.  The  child,  too,  had  been  kept  in  longer  than 
usual.  She  cleared  the  table  quickly  and  they  were  soon 
in  the  street  and  heading  in  the  direction  of  the  river. 


WORK  137 

The  East  River  was  her  favorite  retreat.  It  was  bound 
up  with  her  New  York  life  and  experiences.  She  had  got 
her  first  room  within  a  few  minutes'  walk  from  it.  The 
Alaska  Knitting  Works  where  she  found  her  first  job  was  on 
the  river's  edge.  The  hospital  where  she  had  given  birth 
was  near  it.  Her  little  home  and  the  day  nursery  were  each 
within  a  block  of  it. 

The  long  day  had  left  her  a  short  evening,  and  by  the 
time  she  got  to  it,  the  river  was  shrouded  in  darkness.  The 
child  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  carriage,  and,  undisturbed, 
she  stood  there  a  long  time,  following  the  misty  trail  of 
passing  boats  and  barges.  BlackwelPs  Island  lay  before 
her,  its  lights  twinkling  dimly  in  the  foglike  atmosphere. 
Hilda  was  speculating  about  the  people  on  the  Island,  the 
sick  in  the  hospitals,  the  aged  in  the  homes,  the  criminal. 
.  .  .  Sad  thoughts  were  stirring  within  her.  .  .  . 

When  she  was  home  again  and  was  undressing  the  child 
he  opened  his  eyes  and  gazed  at  his  mother  with  uneasi 
ness. 

"No,  my  sonny,"  Hilda  interpreted  his  look  and  answered 
it,  "Mamma  isn't  going  away;  she  is  going  to  stay  right 
here  with  her  baby." 

The  questioning  gaze  vanished,  and  smiling  little  Ray 
mond  fell  asleep  again. 

She  rounded  out  the  hour  until  ten  with  housework.  She 
was  tired,  but  not  sleepy.  The  day's  events  and  impres 
sions  were  running  through  her  thoughts.  A  sense  of  in 
completeness  came  over  her,  a  feeling  of  something  missing, 
i  i  .  After  a  little  she  traced  that  feeling.  She  had  not 
seen  enough  of  her  baby  that  day;  she  had  not  had  enough 


138  THE    ROAD 

time.  The  time  for  her  child,  for  herself,  had  become  so 
limited.  .  .  . 

That  cannot  go  on  this  way,  she  mused  painfully.  She 
must  have  more  time.  Such  an  existence  would  soon  deaden 
her.  She  must  not  become  a  drudge.  She  would  make  every 
effort  not  to  become  one.  .  .  . 

Her  gaze  fell  upon  the  trunk  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 
It  was  a  new  acquisition.  She  had  bought  it  together  with 
the  furniture  on  the  instalment  plan.  There  were  several 
books  in  the  trunk,  books  Raymond  had  given  her,  bought 
for  her.  .  .  .  She  had  always  meant  to  read  those  books. 
She  had  often  wanted  to  take  them  out  and  had  even 
bought  a  small  willow  bookcase,  along  with  her  furniture, 
to  keep  the  books  in.  But  she  had  never  been  quite  in  the 
mood  to  unpack  the  trunk.  It  was  like  reading  old  letters, 
stirring  up  old  memories.  .  .  . 

The  mood  was  upon  her  now.  .  .  .  Her  very  tiredness 
seemed  to  provoke  it.  ... 

She  unlocked  the  trunk  and  rummaged  through  it  quickly. 
There  was  a  small,  carefully  wrapped-up  package  of  fam 
ily  heirlooms:  some  of  her  mother's  beads  and  a  brooch; 
her  parents*  wedding  certificate,  and  her  father's  naturaliza 
tion  papers.  There  was  also  an  iron  ring  her  father  had 
worn  all  his  life  and  which  he  had  given  her  with  feigned 
playfulness  shortly  before  he  died.  The  ring  he  had  said 
was  lucky.  .  .  . 

The  books  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  trunk  and  she  pro 
duced  them  one  by  one:  "The  Light  that  Failed/'  by  Kip 
ling,  Jack  London's  "The  Call  of  the  Wild."  She  had  read 
them  both.  In  both  of  them  Raymond  had  his  name.  .  .  . 


WORK  139 

Over  the  next  book  she  meditated.  It  was  Ely's  "French 
and  German  Socialism."  Raymond  had  studied  this  book 
in  his  class  in  economics  at  the  University.  He  had  meant 
to  read  it  to  her  the  following  winter.  He  wanted  her  to 
know,  he  had  said,  some  of  the  problems  that  were  stirring 
people  the  world  over.  .  .  .  But  he  had  never  read  it  to  her. 
.  .  .  There  was  no  "following  winter"  in  their  relations. 
.  .  .  She  had  heard  a  good  deal  about  socialism  since,  how 
ever.  The  police  were  constantly  breaking  up  meetings  and 
parades  of  socialists.  There  was  so  much  in  the  newspapers 
about  it. 

Last  came  a  small  booklet  with  yellow  covers.  It  was 
called  "Golden  Treasury"  and  was  an  anthology  of  Eng 
lish  poetry.  Raymond  had  used  the  book  in  his  class  in 
sophomore  English  and  because  of  its  handy  pocket  size  it 
was  his  companion  on  many  of  his  excursions  with  Hilda 
that  summer.  On  the  fly-leaf  was  the  inscription,  "To 
Hilda  from  Raymond."  .  .  . 

It  was  the  only  tangible  memory  she  had  of  him.  .  .  . 

She  took  the  book  of  poems  to  bed  with  her  and  slowly 
turned  its  pages.  Many  of  them  were  marked.  Here  and 
there  lines  were  underscored.  As  she  perused  these  lines  by 
the  dim  light  of  the  gas  jet  she  was  recalling  the  places  and 
the  occasions  on  which  Raymond  had  read  and  declaimed 
them  to  her.  ...  In  spite  of  her  weariness  she  did  not  fall 
asleep  until  very  late. 


CHAPTER   XI 
NEW  PEOPLE 

HILDA  had  no  recollection  of  her  father  going  to  church. 
She  recalled  their  neighbors  doing  so,  but  not  her  father. 
Carl  Thorsen  would  spend  a  good  part  of  his  Sunday  morn 
ing  in  the  barn,  mending  the  wagons,  or  else  helping  her 
ailing  mother  with  things  about  the  house.  .  .  .  Then  he 
would  sit  down  and  read  the  paper.  He  often  read  the  paper 
aloud  to  her  mother,  but  Hilda  understood  nothing  of  the 
reading  and  very  little  of  the  subsequent  conversation.  For 
the  papers  were  in  a  foreign  language  and  the  things  her 
parents  talked  about  were  of  the  old  world  which  she  did 
not  know. 

After  her  mother's  death,  when  her  father  married  again, 
Hilda's  stepmother  and  her  children  went  to  church  regu 
larly — they  were  Catholic — but  her  father  continued  to  stay 
at  home. 

Neither  her  father,  nor  her  mother,  while  she  was  yet 
alive,  talked  religion  to  her,  but  in  the  summer  they  would 
send  her  to  Sunday  school  with  the  Evert  children. 

Sunday  school  was  held  in  a  small  wooden  church  on  the 
outskirts  of  Stillwell.  Never  within  Hilda's  memory  was  a 
sermon  preached  in  that  church — it  did  not  seem  to  be 
equipped  much  for  preaching.  But  it  was  well  equipped 
for  the  giving  of  church  socials.  There  was  a  basement 

140 


NEW  PEOPLE  141 

with  facilities  for  freezing  ice  cream,  making  lemonade,  and 
preparing  sandwiches;  and  the  church  was  used  in  that  di 
rection  liberally.  Every  two  weeks  or  so  a  "social"  was 
held  in  it.  Sometimes  these  socials  were  accompanied  by 
a  speech  from  a  leading  citizen,  but  speech  or  no  speech 
they  always  ended  in  a  jolly  time  for  all. 

The  religion  which  she  had  imbibed  from  her  three  sum 
mers  at  the  Sunday  school — in  the  winter  it  was  too  far  for 
her  to  go — was  a  mixture  of  Biblical  stories  and  parables 
with  wholesome  exhortations  about  being  honest  and  upright 
and  being  kind  to  one's  neighbors.  .  .  . 

Hilda  liked  the  stories  of  the  Old  Testament  about  the 
Egyptians,  the  Romans,  the  Jews,  and  would  in  her  childish 
way  often  reconstruct  the  lost  worlds  of  which  her  Bible 
lessons  spoke.  .  .  .  Great  was  her  surprise  when  one  day 
she  learned  that  one  of  these  Biblical  peoples,  the  Jews, 
had  survived  to  the  present  day.  .  .  .  Yes,  and  there  were 
even  some  four  or  five  Jewish  families  living  in  Stillwell. 
She  was  curious,  and  often  wished  to  see  a  Jew. 

One  day  her  curiosity  was  gratified. 

There  came  to  their  yard  a  Jewish  peddler.  Her  mother, 
who  avoided  exertions  and  did  not  go  to  town  very  often, 
made  the  Jew  take  down  the  pack  from  his  shoulders,  and 
she  chose  a  number  of  articles  from  it,  elastic,  lace,  but 
tons.  .  .  .  While  her  mother  was  testing  the  material  Hilda 
was  examining  the  man.  He  was  fairly  tall  and  his  face 
was  covered  with  a  black,  spade-like  beard.  The  Jew  caught 
the  strangely  fixed  gaze  of  the  child  upon  him  and  smiled. 
Hilda  was  astonished  to  see  him  smile.  She  somehow 
thought  that  a  man  with  a  beard  like  that,  and  whose  lineage 


H2  THE    ROAD 

descended  from  the  days  of  the  Old  Testament  could  not 
possibly  be  smiling.  .  .  . 

It  was  noon.  Her  father  had  just  come  into  the  yard. 
Carl  Thorsen  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the  peddler  and 
asked  him  to  dinner.  ...  At  the  table  the  man  did  not 
eat  their  meat  and  her  father,  who  seemed  to  know  all  about 
the  stranger's  habits,  suggested  that  eggs  be  boiled  for  him. 

Throughout  the  meal  her  father  spoke  with  the  peddler 
and  her  mother  followed  the  conversation  with  interest  It 
was  of  the  old  world  they  talked,  and  it  was  partly  because 
of  this  and  partly  because  of  the  peddler's  manner  of  speak 
ing  the  English  language,  that  the  conversation  remained  in 
distinguishable  to  Hilda.  ...  To  help  him  out  in  conver 
sation  the  man  would  frequently  resort  to  words  which  she 
heard  her  father  say  were  German,  and  which  Carl  Thorsen 
understood. 

Several  times  during  the  meal  Hilda  caught  the  peddler's 
eyes  resting  on  her,  and  then  his  fixed  look  would  dissolve 
itself  into  contemplation.  As  he  was  leaving  the  Jew  gave 
her  a  red  and  blue  rubber  ball.  She  gazed  after  him  until 
he  disappeared  behind  the  neighboring  hill  and  then  she 
went  into  the  house  and  began  to  ply  her  mother  with 
questions. 

The  man,  her  mother  told  her,  was  a  stranger  in  the  land. 
He  had  come  from  a  far  away  country,  from  across  the  sea, 
and  had  left  his  wife  and  children  there.  Among  his  chil 
dren  was  a  girl  of  Hilda's  own  age  and  size,  and  when  he 
had  earned  sufficiently  to  pay  for  the  passage  of  his  wife 
and  children  he  would  send  for  them  to  come  to  America. 
.  .  .  But  that  would  not  be  soon.  It  would  take  at  least 


NEW   PEOPLE  143 

three  or  four  years  until  he  would  have  earned  sufficient 
money  to  pay  for  their  journey. 

Hilda  thought  about  the  peddler  for  days  after.  She  was 
brooding  about  his  family,  especially  about  the  girl  who  was 
her  own  age.  She  hoped  fervently  that  the  man  would  have 
luck  and  would  earn  quickly  the  necessary  money  to  send 
for  his  wife  and  children.  .  .  . 

This  Jew  of  her  childhood  memories,  the  aged  peddler 
with  his  spade-like  beard,  who  had  once  smiled  so  sadly  on 
her,  rose  before  Hilda's  eyes  one  afternoon  when  the  day's 
work  at  the  machine  was  beginning  to  fall  heavy  on  her, 
and  would  not  leave  her  for  a  long  time.  The  image  came 
again  the  next  day  and  the  day  after,  and  it  always  came 
in  the  late  afternoon  when  her  limbs  were  weary  from 
struggling  with  the  machine,  the  cloth,  the  cotton.  .  .  . 

At  first  she  could  not  make  out  the  significance  of  the 
picture,  of  the  image,  that  was  constantly  returning  to  her. 
One  afternoon,  however,  when  her  eyes  were  filmed  with  the 
heat,  dust,  and  perspiration,  the  significance  of  the  recurring 
picture  dawned  upon  her.  .  .  .  She  had  undergone  a  trans 
formation.  ...  It  was  she  who  was  the  Jew  she  had  seen 
as  a  child.  .  .  .  She  was  a  stranger  and  alone.  .  .  .  She  was 
separated  from  her  family.  .  .  .  She  was  carrying  a  pack  on 
her  back,  only  her  pack  was  a  machine,  and  did  not  fit 
smoothly.  .  .  .  She  was  trying  to  conquer  this  machine,  to 
squeeze  a  living  out  of  it  for  herself,  for  her  child,  who  was 
far  removed  from  her,  who  was  in  the  day  nursery  from 
seven  in  the  morning  until  a  quarter  after  six  in  the  eve 
ning.  .  .  . 


144  THE   ROAD 

She  was  the  Jew.  .  .  .  She  was  being  pitied.  .  .  . 

She  was  being  pitied — that  was  no  illusion.  There  was 
no  mistake  about  that.  .  .  .  Her  presence  in  the  factory  had 
become  known  to  score  upon  score  of  girls  and  to  the  few 
men  that  were  working  there,  and  every  one  pitied  her. 
Eyes  were  constantly  turned  toward  her  with  sad,  sympa 
thetic  questioning.  .  .  .  The  sweatshop  was  a  natural 
enough  place  for  a  young  Jewess  who  had  escaped  the  Rus 
sian  pale  and  pogroms.  It  was-fit  enough  for  the  Italian,  or 
Bohemian  young  woman  who  had  been  but  a  short  time  in 
this  country.  But  for  a  "Yankee,"  for  a  girl  born  and  bred 
in  America  to  come  to  a  sweatshop — that  was  unheard  of. 
.  .  .  Only  a  great  tragedy  could  have  induced  such  an 
American  girl  to  come  down  to  this  work,  and  the  girls  and 
men  about  her  were  searching  for  that  tragedy  in  Hilda's 
appearance,  looks  and  actions.  .  .  . 

The  only  oasis  in  the  desert  of  strange  faces  was  Mrs. 
Breen,  the  young  woman  with  whom  Hilda  had  become  ac 
quainted  on  her  first  day  in  the  shop.  They  were  going 
out  to  lunch  together  regularly,  and  often  during  the  after 
noon,  when  Hilda's  strength  seemed  to  be  ebbing  and  her 
spirits  drooped,  a  smile  from  her  newly  acquired  friend 
across  the  two  rows  of  machines,  would  tear  apart  the  cur 
tain  of  gloom  from  in  front  of  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Breen  was  thirty-two  years  old,  slightly  below 
medium  height  and  plump.  Her  olive  complexioned  fea 
tures  were  framed  by  a  wealth  of  wavy  black  hair.  Her 
eyes  were  big,  dark  and  strangely  mobile,  like  prisoners 
dreaming  of  freedom,  but  locked  in  a  cell.  .  .  .  She  had 
been  a  widow  two  and  a  half  years  and  was  supporting  a 


NEW  PEOPLE  145 

son  of  ten.  Her  speech  was  meticulous,  and  her  British 
enunciation  of  certain  words  especially  caught  Hilda's  ear. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  week  Hilda  found  in  her  pay 
envelope  eight  dollars — the  previous  week  she  had  had  only 
five.  She  imparted  this  to  her  friend. 

"Not  bad,"  Mrs.  Breen  commented.  "I  guess  the  fore- 
lady  is  pretty  decent  with  you.  .  .  .  She  ought  to  be.  .  .  ." 

What  Mrs.  Breen  implied  was  that  Hilda  being  the  only 
Christian  American  girl  in  the  shop,  the  forelady,  who  was 
also  a  Christian  American,  ought  to  give  her  a  chance.  .  .  . 
But  Hilda,  in  whom  questions  of  religion  and  race  were  not 
as  keenly  developed  as  in  the  Jewess  did  not  get  the  drift 
of  her  friend's  remark.  She  was  absorbed  in  thoughts  about 
the  factory,  her  work,  her  prospects. 

"You'll  soon  be  making  ten,  twelve  and  even  fifteen  dol 
lars  a  week,"  Mrs.  Breen  was  telling  her,  "and  you  had 
better  save  as  much  as  you  can.  In  this  trade  you  may 
expect  a  strike  almost  any  time." 

At  the  mention  of  the  word  strike  a  cloud  flitted  over 
Hilda's  face. 

A  few  days  later  they  were  again  talking  about  strikes 
and  the  possibility  of  being  out  of  work.  Mrs.  Breen  be 
came  confidential  with  Hilda. 

"This  isn't  a  union  shop,"  she  said,  "and  it's  not  advis 
able  to  say  much  about  the  union  around  here.  All  the 
same  you  ought  to  try  and  join  it  a  little  later.  It's  a  help 
and  protection  at  times." 

"Do  you  belong  to  the  union?"  Hilda  asked. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Breen  replied,  "But  don't  tell  any  one 
around  here." 


146  THE    ROAD 

Several  times  that  afternoon  Hilda  and  Mrs.  Breen  ex 
changed  smiles  and  glances  as  if  they  had  a  great  secret 
between  them.  That  evening  they  went  home  together. 

The  following  day  Hilda's  machine  in  the  shop  stood 
idle.  She  had  not  shown  up  for  work.  Nor  did  she  come 
the  day  after.  In  the  evening  some  one  rapped  at  her 
door.  It  was  Mrs.  Breen. 

"I  guessed  as  much,"  her  friend  said  when  she  looked 
at  the  babe  sitting  in  Hilda's  lap  listlessly.  "He's  been 
ill?"  She  took  little  Raymond  and  he  submitted  to  her 
without  a  murmur.  "He'll  be  all  right  again  in  the  morn 
ing,"  Mrs.  Breen  cheered  both  mother  and  child. 

Hilda  was  delighted.  She  asked  her  friend  to  stay  to 
supper  with  her,  but  the  latter  declined. 

"Some  other  time,"  she  said.  "I  must  rush  home  now. 
This  is  the  night  when  my  boy  takes  his  music  lesson." 

"Does  your  son  take  music  lessons?"  Hilda  asked,  a  thrill 
running  through  her.  She  was  thinking  of  her  own 
boy.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  yes,"  Mrs.  Breen  answered  with  a  dash  of  pride  in 
her  voice.  "He  plays  the  violin  splendidly;  the  teachers 
tell  me  that.  I  must  get  you  over  to  my  place  one  evening 
soon  and  have  him  play  for  you." 

Hilda  came  to  work  the  next  day.  During  the  morning 
Mrs.  Breen  several  times  signaled  to  her  with  her  eyes  in 
timating  that  she  had  something  to  tell  her.  Judging  by  the 
smile  on  her  face  it  was  something  pleasant.  As  soon  as 
the  machines  stopped  they  met. 

"My  boy,"  Mrs.  Breen  said,  "has  hit  up  a  grand  idea. 
Let's  make  a  picnic  next  Sunday." 


NEW   PEOPLE  147 

Hilda  concurred  heartily.  It  was  decided  that  Mrs. 
Breen  and  her  boy  would  come  to  Hilda's  house  in  the 
morning  and  from  there  they  would  go  together  to  Pros 
pect  Park  in  Brooklyn.  .  .  . 

A  hot  July  sun  was  beating  down  upon  the  city,  and  when 
Mrs.  Breen  and  Hilda  had  reached  the  park,  a  little  before 
noon  that  Sunday,  all  the  choice  picnic  places  were  gone. 
After  a  brief  search,  however,  they  found  a  shady  spot  not 
far  from  the  water  and  they  took  possession  of  it. 

Mrs.  Breen  was  managing  the  party.  In  the  art  of  pic 
nicking  she  was  an  expert.  When  her  husband  was  alive, 
she  was  telling  Hilda,  they  seldom  spent  a  summer  Sunday 
at  home,  going  either  to  the  seashore  or  into  the  country. 
Her  husband  had  loved  the  woods.  .  .  . 

Hilda  had  no  more  than  let  her  child  down  on  the  grass, 
when  Willy,  Mrs.  Breen's  ten  year  old  son,  took  complete 
charge  of  him.  At  first  she  was  nervous,  afraid  lest  the 
older  boy  prove  careless  or  boisterous  and  in  some  manner 
injure  her  child.  But  she  was  soon  reassured.  With  the 
hunger  for  companionship  common  to  an  only  child  Willy 
was  at  once  absorbed  in  the  little  fellow.  He  was  playing 
with  him  and  guiding  him  like  an  older  brother.  .  .  . 

As  she  watched  her  child  trying  to  respond  to  the  older 
boy's  tricks  and  conversation  it  seemed  to  Hilda  as  if  her 
son  had  become  bigger,  older.  .  .  .  Little  Raymond  seemed 
to  be  growing  before  her  very  eyes.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Breen  was  skimming  through  the  Sunday  newspaper, 
and  Hilda  took  a  part  of  it  and  scanned  it  also.  The  paper 
now  seemed  to  her  like  an  unthreaded  machine  which  runs 


148  THE   ROAD 

through  the  cloth  but  leaves  no  seam.  -.  .  .  She  was  look 
ing  at  the  printed  page  but  her  mind  refused  to  retain  any 
thing  of  what  she  saw.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  her  that  never  yet  had  she  seen  grass  so 
beautifully  green.  A  mellow  fragrance  was  stirring  her 
blood.  It  was  as  if  the  earth  was  bursting  with  tenderness 
and  emotion.  .  .  . 

She  stretched  herself  upon  the  ground  and  lay  silent  for 
some  minutes,  and  in  these  minutes  she  compressed  the 
vital  memories  of  her  twenty-four  years.  She  was  oblivious 
of  Mrs.  Breen,  who  reclining  on  one  arm,  was  studying 
the  relaxed  form  of  her  friend.  .  .  . 

Hilda  was  thinking  of  Raymond  Evert.  ...  He  had 
graduated  from  college  by  this  time.  ...  No  doubt  he  had 
a  girl.  .  .  .  Who  was  she?  Was  he  happy  with  her?  .  .  s 
And  had  he  put  her,  Hilda,  completely  out  of  his  mind? 
i  .  .  Was  it  possible  that  he  never  felt  that  he  was  a  father 
— that  a  child  of  his  was  growing  up  somewhere — alone  in 
the  world?  .  .  . 

She  tried  to  analyze  her  feelings  towards  him.  .  .  .  There 
had  been  times,  before  the  child  came,  when  she  had  hated 
Raymond,  when  she  could  have  torn  him  limb  from  limb  for 
the  shame,  the  pain,  the  suffering  he  had  caused  her.  .  .  * 
But  that  time  was  past.  .  .  . 

She  was  blaming  herself  now.  She  should  have  known 
better.  ...  In  running  away  from  her  he  had  acted  true 
to  form.  ...  He  was  always  a  nice,  but  weak  boy.  .  .  . 
Even  though  he  was  a  year  older  than  herself  she  should 
have  been  the  stronger  of  the  two.  .  .  .  She  should  have 
known  better.  , 


NEW  PEOPLE  149 

Suppose  he  came?  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her.  .  .  .  Sup 
pose  they  met  unexpectedly?  What  would  she  do?  Could 
she  still  love  him,  trust  him,  go  with  him? 

Her  face  contracted  in  pain. 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,"  Mrs.  Breen  broke  into  her 
reveries. 

"They  aren't  worth  more,"  Hilda  said,  sitting  up  and 
searching  with  her  eyes  for  the  child. 

Nevertheless  she  went  back  to  her  thoughts,  and  Mrs. 
Breen,  in  spite  of  her  pretended  lightness,  was  also  in  a 
somber,  reminiscent  mood.  When  an  hour  later  they  had 
finished  their  dinner  and  the  children  were  playing  by  them 
selves  a  little  distance  away,  Mrs.  Breen  began  telling  Hilda 
about  her  husband  and  how  they  had  met  twelve  years 
earlier  in  London. 

She  produced  a  small  volume,  a  bound  collection  of 
pamphlets  on  socialism.  It  opened  with  a  brochure  by 
Prince  Peter  Kropotkin  entitled  "An  Appeal  to  the  Young." 
The  third  or  fourth  pamphlet  in  the  collection  was  headed 
"Workers  Arise!"  and  the  author  of  it  was  given  as  Leon 
Breen. 

"That's  my  husband,"  Mrs.  Breen  said,  pointing  to  the 
name  on  the  title  page. 

"Your  husband  was  a  writer?"  Hilda  gazed  at  her  in  sur 
prise. 

"My  husband,"  Mrs.  Breen  corrected  her,  "was  a  So 
cialist  editor  and  speaker.  This  pamphlet  here  was  a 
speech  of  his.  He  delivered  it  on  the  first  of  May  twelve 
years  ago  in  Hyde  Park.  I  can  see  him  still  on  the  plat 
form.  .  .  ." 


i5o  THE   ROAD 

She  was  describing  to  Hilda  their  life  in  London  and  she 
talked  of  that  life  as  one  talks  of  a  lost  paradise.  .  .  .  She 
named  great  Englishmen  and  more  especially  great  Russians 
— her  husband  was  a  Russian — with  whom  they  had  mingled 
in  the  past  in  England.  .  .  .  Mr.  Breen  had  been  a  disciple 
of  Kropotkin,  and  teacher  and  pupil  had  often  spoken  from 
the  same  platiorm.  .  .  . 

An  urgent  call  from  a  revolutionary  labor  group  in  Amer 
ica  brought  her  husband  and  herself  to  New  York.  To 
begin  with,  life  in  the  New  World  was  interesting.  It  was 
filled  with  so  many  small  personal  comforts  they  had  not 
had  in  England.  Her  husband's  earnings  were  much  larger. 
They  took  a  steam  heated  flat;  they  had  electricity  and 
every  convenience.  .  .  . 

But  they  did  not  have  it  for  long.  Death  came.  Mr. 
Breen  returned  from  a  meeting  one  night  drenched  to  the 
bone.  He  was  in  bed  several  weeks.  The  doctor  cautioned 
them  against  pneumonia.  But  there  was  no  pneumonia. 
The  cold  had  settled  on  the  kidneys.  The  struggle  with 
disease  lasted  for  six  months.  Then  her  husband  died.  .  .  . 

The  children,  tired  from  play,  had  slipped  up  to  them 
for  a  rest.  Hilda  took  little  Raymond  in  her  lap.  Willy 
sat  beside  his  mother  listening.  Hilda  was  studying  Willy's 
head  and  face.  He  had  fine,  sensitive  features.  By  look 
ing  at  the  son  she  was  trying  to  construct  a  picture  of  the 
father.  .  .  . 

When  Mrs.  Breen  reached  the  part  about  her  husband's 
last  illness  and  death,  a  sad  brooding  came  into  her  son's 
face.  .  ,  .  She  grew  silent.  They  were  all  silent,  and  this 
silence  only  emphasized  the  life  and  laughter  about  them. 


NEW   PEOPLE  151 

The  park  swarmed  with  people;  girls  in  twos  and  threes, 
boys  in  groups  of  six  and  eight;  families,  couples,  children; 
lonely  young  and  old  men. 

"There's  Mr.  Raboff,"  Willy  jumped  up  in  a  twinkling. 

"Where?"  his  mother  asked,  and  instinctively  her  hand 
went  up  to  her  hair. 

But  Willy  was  off. 

"Alex,  Alex,"  he  shouted,  running  up  to  a  youngster  his 
own  age  and  the  two  put  their  arms  about  each  other  like 
old  friends. 

Mrs.  Breen  rose. 

"London  friends,"  she  whispered  to  Hilda  and  went  to 
meet  the  approaching  couple  and  their  two  children. 

She  shook  hands  with  the  man;  with  the  woman  she 
kissed. 

"Meet  my  friend,  Mrs.  Thorsen,"  she  introduced  Hilda. 
"Mr.  Raboff,"  this  with  feigned  threat  to  Hilda,  "is  the 
secretary-treasurer  of  the  Waist  Makers'  Union.  If  you 
don't  watch  out  he's  going  to  rope  you  into  his  organiza 
tion." 

"That's  right,"  the  man  smiled,  "we  are  in  the  midst  of 
a  soul-saving  campaign  just  now.  But,"  he  took  up  Mrs. 
Breen's  mood,  "how  comes  it  that  you  haven't  brought  your 
friend  around  to  the  union  till  now?  Haven't  you  been  de 
linquent?" 

"I  have  not,"  she  said  with  mock  protest.  "I  have  already 
spoken  to  Mrs.  Thorsen  about  the  union,  haven't  I,  Hilda?" 

It  was  the  first  time  Mrs.  Breen  had  called  Hilda  by  her 
first  name.  It  seemed  natural  after  the  intimate  conver 
sation  that  passed  between  them. 


152  THE  ROAD 

"Go  on,  put  Mrs.  Thorsen  through  the  third  degree," 
Mrs.  Raboff  now  addressed  her  husband,  "while  Ada  and  I 
run  off  and  have  a  little  talk  by  ourselves." 

"You  proud  thing — never  showing  yourself — "  was  all 
Hilda  caught  of  the  conversation  between  Ada  Breen  and  her 
friend.  Willy  had  now  run  off  to  play  with  the  Raboff 
children  and  little  Raymond  stood  beside  her.  She  sat 
down  again  and  he  put  his  little  head  in  her  lap.  Raboff 
Sat  down  on  the  grass  near  her. 

"Mrs.  Breen  and  my  wife  are  old  friends,"  he  explained. 
"They  went  to  school  together  in  England.  We  came  to 
America,  too,  about  the  same  time.  Did  you  know  Mr. 
Breen?" 

Hilda  stated  that  her  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Breen  began 
only  a  short  time  back  in  the  factory. 

"Then  you  are  not  English?"  he  asked. 

"No,  I  am  American— from  the  Middle  West,"  Hilda 
smiled. 

She  had  become  accustomed  to  being  studied  by  for 
eigners  as  if  she  were  a  stranger.  .  .  . 

"I  thought  that  there  was  something  about  you  that  did 
not  belong  here,  that  was  not  New  Yorkish,"  Raboff  con 
tinued. 

Then  he  asked  her  about  the  West.  To  Hilda  his 
questions  were  reminiscent.  Ernest  White  had  often  talked 
about  the  West  in  the  same  manner.  Apparently  it  was  an 
immigrant  trait  to  dream  of  the  West  while  staying  in  the 
crowded  cities  of  the  East. 

Spurred  on  by  Raboff's  interest  she  described  to  him  the 
average  home  in  the  small  town  in  Wisconsin  as  she  had 


NEW  PEOPLE  153 

known  it,  the  frame  house,  the  yard,  the  barn.  Her  father 
she  said  never  locked  the  stable  door;  they  never  feared 
thieves. 

Raboff  listened  and  seemed  to  be  making  comparisons. 

"You  would  think,"  he  said,  "from  the  way  people  are 
crowding  in  New  York  that  space  in  America  is  at  a  pre 
mium.  And  yet  in  reality  there  is  so  much  land,  so 
much.  .  .  ." 

He  was  speaking  about  the  working  class  in  America  and 
came  to  the  Waist  Workers'  Union  once  more.  His  organi 
zation,  he  was  saying,  was  fighting  for  immediate  improve 
ment  of  conditions  in  the  trade.  But  that  was  only  a  part 
of  its  program.  His  union  had  other  aims.  All  the  other 
leaders  were  like  himself,  socialists,  and  the  chief  principle 
underlying  their  agitation  was  the  education  of  the  work 
men  in  the  union  to  the  iniquity  of  the  present  system. 

He  stopped  to  dilate  upon  this  iniquity.  Industry  was 
at  the  present  time  owned  by  a  handful  of  capitalists,  it 
should  be  owned  by  the  people. 

"Of  course,"  he  added,  "our  union  is  very  much  ahead 
of  the  average  labor  organizations  in  America.  It  is  com 
posed  mostly  of  foreign  workers,  and  in  this  respect,  I  be 
lieve,  we  are  more  advanced  than  the  American  workers; 
we  are  more  alive  to  big  problems.  .  .  ." 

Hilda  listened  and  was  thinking  how  strange  life  was. 
Here  a  man,  an  important  man,  was  sitting,  talking  to  her, 
taking  her  in  his  confidence.  .  .  .  Mr.  Raboff  was  evidently 
considering  her  a  nice  person.  Was  she  really  a  nice  per 
son?  And  that — with  Raymond — the  child?  .  .  .  Was  it 
nothing?  *  >,  ,  Would  she  ever  have  the  feeling,  the  convic- 


154  THE    ROAD 

tion  that  nothing,  really  nothing  had  ever  been  the  matter 
with  her?  .... 

Raboff  was  talking  about  another  phase  of  the  union.  It 
was  not  only  a  wartime  weapon,  it  was  also  a  sort  of  family 
institution. 

"It  inspires  a  feeling  of  solidarity  among  the  workers," 
he  was  saying.  "You  feel  that  you  are  not  alone.  In  sick 
ness  your  union  brothers  and  sisters  come  to  your  aid.  .  .  ." 

The  last  words  sank  into  Hilda's  mind.  Alone,  she  had 
been  so  much  alone — all  her  life.  .  .  . 

She  asked  about  the  meetings.  Were  they  held  often? 
Was  attendance  compulsory?  If  so,  she  could  not  join.  She 
could  not  come  to  meetings  much.  She  was  alone  with  the 
child.  .  .  . 

"Alone  with  the  child,"  the  labor  leader  repeated  and  for 
the  moment  seemed  oblivious  of  Hilda.  Thought  and  sor 
row  blended  in  his  eyes. 

As  he  sat  thus  subdued  and  with  traces  of  suffering  in 
his  face  Hilda  examined  him.  He  appeared  thirty-seven  or 
thirty-eight  years  old,  of  slender  build,  and  wore  his  dark 
hair  rather  long.  He  did  not  look  like  a  laboring  man;  he 
appeared  more  like  a  teacher.  He  might  even  pass  for  a 
minister.  They  had  such  a  minister  once  in  Stillwell. 

"You  had  better  join  our  organization,"  he  said  after 
some  debate  with  himself.  "I  think  you  need  an  organ 
ization.  That  about  meetings  and  the  baby  will  be  all 
right " 

He  took  out  a  card  and  began  writing  down  her  address. 

"What'd  I  tell  you,"  Mrs.  Breen's  voice  rang  out  tri- 


NEW   PEOPLE  155 

umphantly,  "Our  missionary's  been  on  the  job  and  another 
soul  goes  into  the  golden  book." 

Mrs.  Raboff  sat  down  on  the  grass  beside  Hilda.  Her 
husband  was  questioning  Willy  about  his  school  and  his 
music.  Mrs.  Breen  listened  thoughtfully. 

Finally  Raboff  rose.  It  was  time  for  them  to  go.  They 
still  had  a  visit  to  make  that  afternoon.  He  shook  hands 
warmly  with  Hilda. 

"You  will  hear  from  me  in  a  few  days,"  he  said  in  parting. 

His  wife  was  exacting  a  promise  from  Mrs.  Breen  that  she 
would  be  over  to  see  them  the  following  week. 

When  they  were  gone  and  Hilda  and  Mrs.  Breen  were 
alone  once  more,  a  restlessness  came  over  them.  The  spot 
upon  which  they  had  been  sitting  seemed  to  have  lost  its 
charm  and  repose.  At  Hilda's  suggestion  they  started  on  a 
stroll  through  the  park. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  NEW  FAITH 

".  .  .  AND  you,  Woman  of  the  people.  .  .  .  While  ca 
ressing  the  pretty  head  of  the  child  who  nestles  close  to 
you,  do  you  never  think  about  the  lot  that  awaits  him,  if 
the  present  social  conditions  are  not  changed?  .  .  . 

"Count  and  see  how  many  there  are  who  suffer  ...  in 
justice.  .  .  .  Aye,  all  of  us  together,  we  who  suffer  and  are 
insulted  daily,  we  are  a  multitude  whom  no  man  can  num 
ber,  we  are  the  ocean  that  can  embrace  and  swallow  up  all 
else.  .  .  . 

"When  we  have  but  the  will  to  do  it,  that  very  moment 
will  justice  be  done:  that  very  instant  the  tyrants  of  the 
earth  shall  bite  the  dust.  .  .  ." 

"Bite  the  dust!  .  .  ." 

Hilda  laid  aside  the  book  of  pamphlets  which  she  had 
borrowed  from  Ada  Breen  that  afternoon  and,  rising  from 
her  pillow,  looked  about  the  room.  The  clock  on  the  man 
telpiece  showed  a  quarter  past  twelve.  The  child  was  sound 
asleep.  In  the  street  below  there  was  a  noise,  but  she  dis 
tinguished  it  as  a  song  which  a  couple  of  drunken  men  on 
their  way  home  were  singing.  .  .  . 

Nothing  was  changed  in  the  four  hours  since  she  went  to 
bed  with  the  book,  and  yet  nothing  was  the  same  again.  .  .  . 

She  wanted  to  laugh,  laugh  loud  and  long  at  her  former 

156 


THE   NEW  FAITH  157 

fears,  beliefs,  scruples.  .  .  .  No,  she  did  not  want  to  laugh 
after  all.  .  .  .  What  she  wanted  was  to  proclaim  the  new 
faith  that  she  had  found,  to  announce  that  she,  Hilda 
Thorsen,  was  no  longer  what  she  had  been.  .  .  .  And  she 
was  no  longer  alone,  i  .  .  She  had  joined  the  millions  of 
others  who  walk  in  darkness — "walk  in  darkness,"  yes,  that 
was  the  phrase  one  of  the  writers  had  used.  .  .  .  She  had 
joined  the  great  army  of  the  proletariat.  .  .  . 

She  jumped  out  of  bed,  wrapped  herself  in  her  kimono 
and  turning  out  the  light,  took  up  her  favorite  position  near 
the  open  window.  There  were  a  million  stars  in  the  sky 
and  against  these  stars  the  huge  tenements  about  her,  looked 
like  dismal,  tragic  carcasses  awaiting  the  cart  and  the  cart- 
man.  .  .  .  They  were  doomed,  these  tenements.  .  .  . 
Strange  that  they  did  not  know  it.  ...  The  new  order  had 
doomed  them.  .  .  .  The  social  revolution  would  sweep  them 
away.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  of  a  commotion.  .  -.  .  The 
tenements  were  stirring.  .  .  .  They  were  falling  back,  re 
treating  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  ...  In  their  place  a  gar 
den  had  arisen  ....  Interspersed  through  the  garden 
were  homes.  They  were  the  homes  of  the  new  social  order. 
.  .  .  Healthy  children,  neatly  dressed,  with  refined  looks  in 
their  faces,  were  playing  all  about.  .  .  .  They  were  the 
children  of  the  proletariat  in  the  new  age.  .  .  . 

Hilda  became  aware  that  she  was  dreaming  with  her 
eyes  wide  open,  and  she  smiled  at  the  flights  of  vision  she 
was  yielding  herself  up  to.  ...  But  the  vision  brought  her 
a  cheerfulness  she  had  never  before  experienced.  ...  A 
new  dignity  had  come  over  her.  .  .  .  Her  suffering,  the 


158  THE   ROAD 

suffering  of  millions  like  herself,  had  not  gone  unnoticed. 
.  .  .  People  knew  of  it,  writers  wrote  about  it.  ...  How 
beautifully  they  wrote!  .  .  .  Want  and  suffering  have  be 
come  a  badge  of  honor,  one  of  the  pamphlets  had  said.  .  .  . 
The  future  belonged  to  those  who  suffer.  .  .  . 

If  she  only  had  some  one  to  talk  to!  ...  Her  mind  was 
full  to  bursting  and  her  heart  ached  with  feeling,  with  love 
for  the  poor,  for  the  weary  and  oppressed.  .  .  . 

But  there  was  no  one  to  talk  to.  The  streets  were  sound 
asleep.  .  .  .  Sorrow  and  tears,  sin  and  suffering  had  found 
rest  in  the  bosom  of  the  night.  .  .  .  She  searched  the  face 
of  the  clock.  It  was  a  quarter  after  one;  time  to  go  to 
bed.  She  had  to  go  to  work  in  the  morning.  .  .  . 

But  she  was  not  falling  asleep  and  she  began  to  count: 
Thirty-five.  .  .  .  One-fifty.  .  .  .  Two-twenty-five.  .  .  . 
She  would  try  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  upon  a  point  on  the 
wall.  ...  It  had  worked  once  before.  Yes.  .  .  .  But.  .  .  » 
It  could  not  be  possible.  .  .  .  Well,  it  was  so.  .  .  . 

She  could  hardly  speak  for  emotion.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  was  he. 
.  .  .  Kropotkin,  himself.  ...  He  stood  before  her  and  was 
very  glad  to  meet  her,  Hilda  Thorsen.  .  .  .  He  knew  her 
name.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  had  meant  every  word  he  had  said  in 
the  pamphlet.  .  .  .  She  was  the  equal  of  anybody.  All 
were  equal.  There  were  no  high  and  no  low.  All  were 
needed  for  the  coming  revolution.  .  .  .  She  was  needed; 
she  could  do  much  good.  .  .  . 

He  was  introducing  her  to  a  host  of  celebrated  people: 
Karl  Marx,  Bebel,  Liebknecht.  .  .  .  They  all  looked  quite 
familiar.  She  remembered  their  names  readily.  .  .  .  Why 
shouldn't  she?  Hadn't  she  read  at  length  about  them  in 


THE    NEW   FAITH  159 

"French  and  German  Socialism"  .  .  .  Raymond  had  given 

her  the  book.  .  .  .  Raymond The  memory  of  him 

seemed  trivial  now.  ...  He  was  out  of  place  in  the  midst 
of  this  distinguished  company.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  commotion  outside.  .  .  .  She  ran  out  to  see. 
She  was  in  Spain — Madrid.  ...  In  front  of  the  royal 
palace  were  masses  of  .workmen.  They  were  displaying  their 
ragged  clothes,  showing  their  hollow  faces  and  sunken  chests. 
.  .  .  Crying  for  bread.  .  .  .  Freedom.  .  .  .  Soldiers  were 
coming.  .  .  .  Bayonets.  .  .  .  Terror  in  the  eyes  of  the  men. 
.  .  .  But  wait.  .  .  .  Women.  ...  An  army  of  women  was 
coming.  .  .  .  They  were  sweeping  the  men  aside.  They 
rushed  to  the  front,  tearing  their  waists,  shirts,  exposing  their 
breasts  to  the  bayonets.  .  .  .  The  soldiers  quailed.  .  .  . 
Brave  women.  .  .  .  Hurrah.  .  .  .  Long  live  the  revolution. 
.  .  .  Onward.  .  .  .  Onward-d-d-d.  .  .  . 

The  clock  was  ringing.  It  was  a  quarter  after  five — morn 
ing.  .  .  .  Hilda  was  distantly  conscious  of  a  headache.  She 
had  not  had  enough  sleep.  .  .  .  But  she  jumped  out  of  bed, 
went  up  to  the  window  and  stuck  her  head  out.  The  morn 
ing  dew  was  enveloping  her  body  like  a  cold  sheet.  She 
stood  near  the  window  the  whole  of  five  minutes.  Then 
she  began  to  dress.  She  hummed  softly  as  she  washed.  .  .  . 

She  was  impatient  to  see  Mrs.  Breen.  Would  her  friend 
recognize  the  change  which  had  come  over  her?  There  were 
things  about  Ada  which  Hilda  had  never  before  fully  under 
stood,  a  certain  poise,  a  certain  serene  way  of  looking  at 
people,  of  meeting  life.  .  .  .  But  now  she  understood  her. 
.  .  .  Ada  was  a  socialist;  that  explained  everything.  She 
had  a  viewpoint;  she  had  an  ideal,  she  had  a  dream.  .  .  . 


i6o  THE   ROAD 

Hilda  and  Mrs.  Breen  were  scarcely  out  of  the  elevator 
at  noon  when  she  asked: 

"Is  that  prince — Kropotkin  an  old  man?" 

"About  seventy,  I  should  say.    Why?" 

"Nothing.  I  read  his  pamphlet  last  night.  Has  he  writ 
ten  more  books?" 

Ada  had  several  volumes  of  Kropotkin  at  home.  She  ha(J 
other  books,  too,  that  Hilda  might  like  to  read. 

"Come  over  to  my  flat  some  evening  this  week  and  look 
at  'em,"  she  said. 

As  they  approached  the  loft  building  again  on  their  way 
from  lunch  Hilda  asked: 

"Are  there  any  other  socialists  in  the  shop  beside  ow- 
sehes?" 

There  was  suppressed  agitation  in  her  voice,  and  Ada 
looked  at  her  friend  closely.  "The  girl  is  changing,"  she 
mused.  "She  has  changed  already."  Aloud  she  answered: 
"I  believe  there  are  quite  a  few.  There  are  a  number  of 
faces  I  recall  having  seen  at  socialist  affairs." 

Several  times  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  Hilda  swept 
the  shop  with  her  gaze.  She  was  searching  among  the  hun 
dreds  of  workers  at  the  machines  the  few  souls  who  shared 
her  faith,  the  faith  of  socialism.  .  .  .  She  was  greeting  them 
in  her  thoughts.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Breen's  home  was  a  nest  of  memories  of  her  dead 
husband.  In  three  rooms  she  crammed  most  of  the  furniture 
of  a  five  room  apartment.  Her  husband's  books,  several 
hundred  of  them,  stood  neatly  arranged  in  book  cases  about 
the  walls.  His  writing  table,  the  inkwell  filled,  stood  fresh 


THE   NEW  FAITH  161 

and  dustless,  as  if  she  were  momentarily  expecting  him  to 
come  in  and  sit  down  to  write.  .  .  . 

On  the  walls  were  pictures:  Karl  Marx,  Nietzsche,  Kro- 
potkin.  Hilda  liked  the  real  likeness  of  Kropotkin  even 
better  than  the  one  she  had  conjured  up  in  her  dream.  .  .  . 
There  was  so  much  kindness  in  the  man's  bearded  face 
and  eyes. 

One  small  frame  contained  a  sheet  of  paper  written  in  a 
broken,  uneven  scrawl.  HiFa  read  its  brief  contents.  It 
said: 

"DEAR  ADA: 

"Not  very  good  to-day.  My  eyes  are  troubling  me. 
Cloudy.  Come  as  soon  as  you  can.  Bring  Willy  along 
without  fail. 

"LEON  BREEN." 

"It's  my  husband's  last  note — from  the  hospital/'  Ada 
explained.  "We  came  to  see  him  that  evening,  Willy  and 
I,  and  at  midnight  he  died.  He  complained  of  clouds 
passing  before  his  eyes  all  the  time  we  were  with  him." 

While  her  friend  was  busy  in  the  kitchen  Hilda  was 
turning  over  an  album.  She  came  across  the  photograph 
of  an  old  woman  who  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  Mrs. 
Breen.  Hilda  asked  her  about  the  picture. 

"That,"  said  Ada,  "is  my  mother." 

"Is  she  alive?" 

"Oh,  yes;  she's  right  here  in  New  York." 

"You  never  speak  of  her." 

Ada's  face  clouded. 


1 62  THE    ROAD 

"No,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "I  never  do.  I've  grieved 
my  mother  in  the  past,  and  she  hurt  me.  We  now  see 
each  other  very  rarely." 

"You  see,"  she  turned  to  Hilda  after  a  silence,  and 
there  was  pain  in  her  eyes,  pain  and  a  plea  for  under 
standing,  "you  see,  my  husband  and  I  never  went  through 
the  marriage  ceremony.  .  .  ." 

Hilda  looked  puzzled.  She  did  not  get  the  significance 
of  her  friend's  words.  Ada  went  on  explaining  to  her, 
telling  her  things  from  the  beginning. 

Her  parents  were  Russian  immigrants  and  they  brought 
her  to  London  when  she  was  eight.  She  was  the  youngest 
in  the  family  and  went  to  school.  Her  other  sisters  went 
to  a  factory.  Her  father  was  the  only  one  w^io  indulged 
her.  He  was  proud  of  her,  but  he  died  early.  She  man 
aged  to  finish  her  primary  education  and  then  she  went 
to  work. 

When  she  was  eighteen  Leon  Breen  took  a  room  with 
an  aunt  of  hers,  and  they  met.  He  was  a  Russian  revo 
lutionist  and  he  began  taking  her  to  Socialist  meetings. 
Her  mother  had  no  understanding  for  such  things,  but 
she  trusted  Breen — every  one  trusted  him,  and  she,  Ada, 
came  and  went  with  him  as  she  pleased. 

One  day  Breen  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  She  con 
sented.  Her  mother  and  sisters  too  were  pleased.  Breen 
went  out  to  look  for  an  apartment.  He  did  not  believe 
in  marriage  ceremonies.  She  believed  what  he  believed  and 
so  they  went  to  live  together  without  the  sanction  and 
approval  of  a  clergyman,  in  this  case  a  rabbi. 

Her  mother  and  sisters  were  scandalized.    To  them  free 


THE    NEW   FAITH  163 

love  was  a  synonym  for  immorality  and  Ada  in  their  eyes 
was  not  a  wife,  but  a  paramour.  Dire  things  would  happen 
to  her,  they  predicted.  When  her  son  Willy  came,  they 
looked  upon  him  as  an  illegitimate  child.  .  .  . 

"At  first,"  Ada  continued,  "my  husband  tried  to  en 
lighten  them.  But  there  are  things  you  can't  argue  into 
the  old  generation.  My  mother  wouldn't  listen  to  his 
words.  She  felt  keenly  the  disgrace  of  our  'unmarried 
state,'  as  she  called  it.  She  conceived  the  idea  that  she 
bore  the  responsibility  for  my  action;  she  had  not  brought 
me  up  properly.  I  had  lost  my  father  too  young  and  she 
should  have  given  me  more  attention.  The  feeling  of  guilt 
and  her  inability  to  rectify  things  made  her  all  the  more 
bitter  toward  me.  Then  my  mother  and  sisters  went 
to  America  and  we  did  not  see  them  for  a  number  of 
years. 

"When  we  came  to  New  York  my  husband  again  made 
an  effort  at  reconciliation,  but  my  mother  remained  obdu 
rate.  She  was  ashamed  of  me.  She  looked  upon  my  child 
as  upon  something  unclean.  .  .  .  We  saw  one  another  sel 
dom  thereafter.  .  .  . 

"Imagine,"  Mrs.  Breen's  voice  faltered,  "two  days  bfr- 
fore  my  husband  died,  mother  sent  an  aged  Jew,  the  sexton 
of  her  synagogue,  to  the  hospital  to  see  my  husband  and 
ask  him  if  he  would  not  go  through  the  marriage  ceremony 
with  me.  My  husband  forced  a  smile  to  his  dying  lips  and 
said:  'If  Ada  wishes  it!'  The  man  then  came  dashing  up 
to  my  flat  and  with  elated  voice  told  me  that  my  husband 
had  'consented'  to  marry  me.  Wouldn't  I  hurry  to  the 
hospital  with  him  to  have  the  ceremony  performed? 


164  THE   ROAD 

"I've  never  insulted  any  one  in  my  life,  but  I  lost  my 
temper  that  time  and  told  him  to  go  as  fast  as  he  could, 
or  I  would  shoot.  ...  He  went,  and  you  should've  heard 
what  he  said  about  me  later.  According  to  the  man's  de 
scription  I  was  the  queen  of  a  band  of  desperadoes.  The 
walls  of  my  apartment  were  covered  with  daggers  and 
revolvers.  ...  Of  course  I  never  held  a  gun  in  my 
hand.  .  .  ." 

Willy  had  come  up  from  the  street.  They  all  went  into 
the  parlor  and  he  took  down  his  violin. 

He  played. 

Ada  Breen  was  explaining  to  her,  in  a  low  voice,  the 
nature  of  the  pieces  her  son  was  playing,  how  advanced 
they  were.  .  .  .  But  Hilda  was  only  half  listening  and 
scarcely  understood  her.  .  .  .  She  was  gazing  at  Willy. 
.  .  .  The  boy's  face,  his  head,  his  whole  being,  was  in 
strange  communion  with  the  violin.  ...  It  seemed  to  her 
that  he  was  not  playing  at  all,  that  he  was  grieving, 
sorrowing,  pouring  out  a  sad  tale.  .  .  .  And  the  violin 
understood  him,  shared  his  grief  and  vibrated  with  a  sub 
dued  sobbing.  .  .  . 

Was  the  boy  thinking  of  his  father?  Hilda  wondered. 
Was  he  lamenting  his  parent's  untimely  death?  Was  it 
the  story  of  his  own  hard  and  lonely  life  he  was  breathing 
into  the  instrument?  .  .  . 

Little  Raymond  was  asleep  in  the  next  room  and  her 
gaze  wandered  in  that  direction.  Her  son,  too,  would 
have  no  father.  .  .  .  Had  in  fact  known  no  father.  .  .  . 
Would  he  miss  him?  .  .  .  Had  he  been  missing  him  al 
ready?  .  .  . 


THE   NEW   FAITH  165 

Mrs.  Breen,  though  accustomed  to  her  son's  playing  and 
minor  moods,  also  yielded  to  the  spell.  ...  A  wave  of 
melancholy  swept  over  her.  .  .  .  She  began  enlarging  to 
Hilda  on  Willy's  qualities.  ...  He  was  as  good  in  school 
as  he  was  in  his  music.  .  .  .  His  teachers  could  not  praise 
him  too  highly.  .  .  .  And  at  home  he  was  a  regular  house 
keeper.  ...  He  was  helping  her  with  her  work.  .  .  .  He 
even  cooked  their  meals.  .  .  . 

Willy  had  finished  playing,  came  up  to  his  mother  and 
put  his  arm  about  her  shoulders.  It  was  as  if  he  feared 
the  music  might  have  stirred  too  many  sad  thoughts  in 
her,  and  he  came  to  console  her.  .  .  . 

Hilda  walked  over  to  the  bookcase  and  studied  the  titles 
of  some  of  the  volumes. 

"Do  you  read  much?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Mrs.  Breen  replied,  "it's  the  only  thing  that 
keeps  one  from  becoming  despondent,  that  keeps  one's  hopes 
green  and  one's  thoughts  beautiful.  Isn't  it,  son?" 

She  raised  her  arm  and  took  Willy's  hand,  which  was  rest 
ing  on  her  shoulder,  in  her  own,  caressing  it  softly. 

Hilda  looked  at  them.  She  never  afterward  forgot  the 
picture  mother  and  son  made  at  that  moment. 

At  the  end  of  ten  days  a  letter  came  from  Mr.  Raboff 
saying  that  Hilda  had  been  admitted  to  the  union.  The 
next  meeting  was  to  be  held  on  a  Thursday  and  he  hoped 
to  see  her  there.  She  went  to  the  meeting  with  Ada,  while 
Willy  stayed  at  her  home  with  little  Raymond. 

Mrs.  Breen  was  acquainted  with  the  leaders  of  the  union 
and  Hilda  was  introduced  to  them.  There  were  a  number 


166  THE    ROAD 

of  speeches  made  about  the  workers7  mission,  struggle.  .  .  „ 
People  in  the  audience  rose  and  approved  or  took  issue  with 
the  speakers.  Hilda  listened  and  experienced  a  sensation 
akin  to  the  one  she  felt  on  her  first  school  day.  All  the 
men  and  women  in  the  audience  seemed  to  know  so  much 
more  than  she.  .  .  .  They  hurled  back  and  forth  terms 
which  were  strange  to  her.  They  cited  names  of  men,  labor 
leaders,  socialists,  who  figured  much  in  the  newspapers. 
They  quoted  books,  authorities  in  America,  in  England,  in 
Germany.  .  .  .  There  was  so  much  she  must  learn,  so 
much.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  a  great  procession  was  forming, 
she  was  to  be  in  it,  but  was  not  ready.  .  .  .  There  were 
certain  things  that  had  to  be  done,  quickly,  hurriedly.  .  .  . 
There  were  losses  to  cover,  deficiencies  to  make  up.  .  .  . 
Her  education  did  not  reach  far  enough.  ...  A  feeling 
of  haste  came  over  her.  .  .  .  She  must  hasten,  hasten.  .  .  . 
In  the  next  two  months  she  ransacked  Mrs.  Breen's  book 
shelves  for  socialist  tracts  and  appeals  and  spent  half  her 
nights  poring  over  them.  .  .  .  She  read  both  quickly  and 
intensely.  She  was  determined  to  retain  as  much  as  she 
possibly  could  of  the  thoughts  and  ideas  the  booklets  con 
tained. 

She  was  astonished  how  simple  the  ideas  these  pamphlets 
put  forward  were,  how  just.  .  .  .  Socialism,  the  new  so 
cial  order,  these  tracts  were  advocating,  seemed  to  be  a 
proposition  of  arithmetic  and  common  sense.  .  .  . 

One  pamphlet  in  particular  impressed  her.  It  was  an 
exposition  of  the  place  woman  would  hold  in  the  new 
order  of  society.  Love,  this  writer  said,  would  be  the  only 
basis  for  marriage.  There  would  be  no  young  girls  marry- 


THE   NEW   FAITH  167 

ing  old  men  because  they  were  rich.  There  would  be  no 
classes,  no  castes,  no  privileged  individuals;  education 
would  be  the  heritage  of  all;  the  schools  would  be  open  to 
all  comers. 

Had  this  order  of  society  been  here  already,  Hilda 
mused,  she  and  Raymond  would  not  be  apart.  .  .  .  They 
loved  each  other.  They  had  every  right  to  each  other, 
naturally,  normally.  It  was  the  Evert  money  that  sepa 
rated  them,  money,  and  false  notions,  false  divisions  in 
society.  Henry  Evert  had  ambitions  to  be  counted,  to 
have  his  son  counted,  among  the  privileged  and  the 
mighty.  .  .  . 

Another  pamphlet  was  eloquent  on  the  subject  of  chil 
dren.  In  the  ideal  society  of  the  future  ignorance  would 
not  be  the  excuse  nor  gain  the  motive  for  children  coming 
into  the  world.  Children  would  neither  be  a  burden,  nor 
would  they  be  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  old-age  pension. 
Every  one  would  be  assured  of  a  decent  existence  until  his 
or  her  dying  day.  Love,  and  love  only,  would  be  the  high 
priest  at  every  birth.  .  .  . 

Nothing  was  said  directly  in  such  pamphlets  about  women 
like  herself,  about  unmarried  mothers.  Hilda  found  no 
specific  mention  of  illegitimacy  except  a  general  statement 
that  all  of  the  present  day  injustices  against  women  and 
discriminations  against  children  would  have  no  place  in 
the  new  society,  would  be  scrapped  with  the  old  order.  .  .  . 

Several  times  she  was  on  the  verge  of  asking  Ada  about 
this — perhaps  she  had  a  pamphlet  on  the  subject — but  she 
restrained  herself  on  reflection. 

She  and  Ada  were  very  dear  friends.  But  there  were 
things  in  one's  personal  life  that  even  one's  dearest  friends 


1 68  THE   ROAD 

had  better  not  know,  she  mused.  They  were  too  private, 
too  intimate.  .  .  .  The  world  seemed  to  be  granting  her  un 
grudgingly  the  status  of  a  widow,  of  an  honest-to-goodness 
widow.  Time  and  tide  were  rolling  the  episode  with  Ray 
mond  further  and  further  away.  Why  bring  it  back?  The 
tragedy  of  her  life  was  beginning  to  smolder.  Why  stir  it 
up  again?  .  .  . 

Work  in  the  factory  had  become  mechanical  by  now  and 
the  material  under  her  fingers  often  seemed  to  transform 
itself  before  her  eyes  into  pages,  pages,  pages.  ...  As  she 
fed  the  cloth  to  the  machine  she  was  rereading  in  her  mind 
what  she  had  read  in  the  book  the  night  before.  .  .  .  Ada 
watched  with  amazed  astonishment  the  rapidity  with  which 
her  young  friend  absorbed  facts,  ideas,  theories.  .  .  . 

The  intensity  of  these  two  months  was  having  its  effect 
upon  Hilda's  health.  A  pallor  had  come  into  her  face.  She 
was  exhausting  herself  by  her  lack  of  sleep:  Ada  again  and 
again  warned  her  to  look  after  her  health,  but  Hilda  would 
not  listen.  She  could  see  nothing  the  matter  with  herself. 
She  was  completely  under  the  spell  of  the  books  and  pam 
phlets  she  was  devouring. 

The  whole  world  was  one  family  to  her  now.  ...  All 
men  were  brothers.  ...  If  they  only  knew  it.  ...  Yes,  if 
they  only  knew  it!  ...  How  much  pain  they  could  spare 
themselves,  how  much  suffering.  .  .  .  How  beautiful  the 
world  could  be  made.  ...  If  they  only  knew  it.  ... 

Tke  last  Sunday  in  September  they  went  to  Bronx  Park. 
It  had  been  raining  for  two  weeks  steadily  and  it  looked  as 
though  the  rain  would  never  end.  But  the  weather  had 


THE   NEW  FAITH  169 

cleared,  a  warm  sun  had  come  out,  and  the  slums  and  tene 
ments  of  New  York  seemed  to  have  poured  themselves  into 
the  park.  Men  of  all  races  and  nations  trailed  through  the 
grounds  with  their  wives,  their  children,  their  baby  car 
riages.  .  .  .  The  riffraff  of  the  city  was  here,  too.  Young 
hoodlums  and  pickpockets  were  circulating  among  the 
crowds,  making  noise,  annoying,  provoking  people.  .  .  . 

Hilda  gazed  at  the  crowds,  and  an  immense  love  rose 
in  her  heart.  She  loved  them,  the  young  and  the  old,  the 
fair  and  the  ugly,  the  unoffending  and  the  criminal.  .  .  . 
They  were  all  brothers,  her  brothers.  .  .  .  Their  sins  and 
burdens  were  not  of  their  own  making.  .  .  .  They  were  as 
good  as  the  best.  .  .  .  Socialism  would  make  them  so.  ... 
"Those  who  are  last  shall  be  first!"  one  Socialist  writer  had 
put  it. 

She  was  filled  with  intense  longing  for  the  new  social 
order.  But  according  even  to  the  most  optimistic  writers, 
socialism  would  come  only  slowly,  gradually.  .  .  .  How  soon 
before  it  would  come?  .  .  . 

She  shared  her  thought  with  Mrs.  Breen. 

"In  a  hundred  years,  I  should  say,"  the  latter  said  after 
reflecting  some  moments.  "It  ought  to  take  at  least  that 
long  to  clear  the  earth  of  its  disfigurements.  It  will  be 
not  only  capitalism  and  capitalist  institutions  socialism  will 
have  to  fight  and  destroy,  it  will  have  to  overcome  the 
beast  in  man  as  well.  And  that  will  be  no  easy  matter. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  beastliness  in  the  world  still." 

"In  a  hundred  years,"  Hilda  repeated,  her  eyes  shining. 
"In  a  hundred  years.  .  .  ." 

"That's  not  much  in  the  progress  of  mankind,  in  the 


170  THE    ROAD 

history  of  civilization."  Ada's  tone  was  slightly  argumen 
tative. 

Hilda  did  not  answer  her.  She  stretched  herself  upon 
the  grass,  laid  her  face  on  her  folded  arms,  and  was 
convulsed  with  sobs.  ...  In  a  hundred  years.  .  .  .  She 
would  be  dead — her  son  would  be  dead.  .  .  .  They  would 
live  and  die  in  the  filth  and  agony  of  a  rotting  civiliza 
tion.  .  .  .  There  would  be  nothing  left  of  their  dreams.  .  .  . 
No  one  to  record  their  suffering.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Breen  divined  her  friend's  thoughts  and  waited. 
When  Hilda  recovered  her  composure,  Ada  smiled  to  her. 

"It's  too  bad,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  such  a  poor  Chris 
tian,  and  that  I'm  not  even  that.  We  are  both  of  us  ex 
cellent  subjects  for  some  quiet,  out  of  the  way  monastery 
right  now.  .  .  .  'Vanity  of  Vanities.'  .  .  ." 

Hilda  too  attempted  to  smile,  but  did  not  go  far  with  it. 

"No,"  Ada's  aspect  became  serious,  "we  must  have  a 
change  of  diet,  little  sister.  No  more  pamphlets  for  a  while. 
I  have  a  set  of  Turgenev  at  home;  we  must  start  you  on 
that  to-night. 

"But  books  are  not  all.  How  long  is  it  since  you  went 
to  a  dance?  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you  had  not  been 
to  a  dance  in  two  years.  I  haven't  been  to  one  longer  than 
that  myself.  .  .  .  Hilda,  you  and  I  are  going  to  dance  this 
winter.  ,  .  ." 


CHAPTER    XIII 
FRANK  HILLSTROM 

THEY  started  for  home  soon  after.  As  they  were  walk 
ing  through  the  park  Hilda  observed  a  tall  man  in  a  black 
sombrero  strolling  along  aimlessly,  looking  at  the  crowds 
and  being  looked  at  in  turn.  She  was  about  to  point  out 
the  man  to  Ada  as  a  specimen  of  the  Far  West,  when  the 
stranger  suddenly  began  heading  straight  towards  them  with 
a  broad  smile. 

In  the  next  instant  Ada  stood  still,  clapped  her  hands 
together,  and  cried  out: 

"Why,  if  it  isn't  Frank  Hillstrom!" 

"That's  him  all  right,"  the  stranger  boomed  in  a  bass 
voice,  and  took  both  her  hands  in  his.  "And  here's  Willy. 
Hello,  Willy!" 

The  boy  answered  Hillstrom's  greeting  bashfully,  but 
the  latter  did  not  seem  to  notice  this.  He  was  looking  at 
the  youngster  with  interest  and  surprise.  Hillstrom  had  not 
seen  Willy  in  two  years,  and  during  that  time  the  boy's 
features  had  come  to  resemble  closely  those  of  his  father. 
It  was  this  that  struck  him  forcibly,  but  he  mastered  the 
impulse  to  comment  on  it. 

Hillstrom's  gaze,  the  comparison  he  was  drawing  be 
tween  the  boy  and  his  dead  parent,  did  not,  however, 

171 


172  THE   ROAD 

escape  Ada.  She  suppressed  a  sigh,  smiled,  and  hastened 
to  introduce  Hilda: 

"Meet  my  friend,  Mrs.  Thorsen,  Hilda  Thorsen.  She 
also  conies  from  the  West." 

Hillstrom  took  Hilda's  slender  hand  in  his  own  broad 
palm  and  fixed  his  gray  smiling  eyes  on  her. 

Hilda  judged  him  to  be  not  much  over  thirty,  but  there 
was  a  patriarchal  sweep  about  him  which  made  one  think 
that  he  had  seen  life.  His  eyes  were  tolerant,  as  if  they 
had  known  suffering.  He  inspired  confidence.  She  had  a 
feeling  as  if  she  were  a  child,  standing  on  a  footing  of 
equality  with  a  grown  man.  .  .  . 

She  hastened  to  explain  that  she  was  not  from  the  Far 
West,  but  from  Chicago,  from  near  Chicago. 

They  were  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  walk  and  people 
stopped  to  look  at  them. 

"I  guess  we're  obstructing  traffic,"  Hillstrom  said.  "We'd 
better  move  on;  which  way  were  you  going?" 

"We  were  about  to  start  for  home,"  Ada  explained. 
"Where  were  you  going?  Have  you  anything  on  this 
evening,  anything  of  importance?  Any  meetings?" 

He  had  no  meetings,  and  Mrs.  Breen  claimed  Hillstrom 
as  their  own  for  the  evening. 

When  they  reached  the  elevated  station,  Hilda,  who 
had  been  leading  little  Raymond  slowly  by  the  hand,  was 
about  to  take  him  in  her  arms  to  go  up  the  stairs  with 
him,  when  Hillstrom  quickly  swung  around,  picked  up  the 
child,  and  brought  his  little  face  close  to  his  own.  Little 
Raymond,  surprised,  hesitated  for  an  instant  between  tears 
and  laughter.  Finally  he  laughed  and  made  a  dash  for  Hill- 


FRANK   HILLSTROM  173 

Strom's  nose.  Hillstrom  dodged,  and  the  child  got  hold  of 
his  ear  and  began  pulling  it. 

They  went  up  to  the  train  amid  a  great  deal  of  mer 
riment. 

Clouds  were  gathering  and  they  wondered  whether  they 
would  be  caught  in  the  rain.  But  they  were  not.  They  had 
reached  home  before  the  rain  started. 

Hilda  excused  herself  and  went  into  the  kitchen  to  help 
Mrs,  Breen  with  the  supper.  Hillstrom  in  the  meantime 
was  carrying  on  a  dual  conversation,  with  little  Raymond 
about  a  toy  dog  which  the  child  had  picked  up,  and  with 
Willy  about  his  school  work  and  his  violin. 

Frank  Hillstrom  was  known  in  socialist  circles  from  New 
York  to  San  Francisco.  Wherever  there  was  a  strike  of 
any  duration  or  consequence  he  was  on  the  scene  as  a 
speaker.  There  was  nothing  of  the  socialist  dilettante  about 
him.  His  hair  was  cut  short;  the  flowing  necktie,  whether 
red  or  otherwise,  was  missing.  He  looked  and  talked  like 
a  workingman,  had  a  sense  of  humor,  and  was  a  convinc 
ing  speaker  rather  than  a  fiery  orator. 

He  would  not  settle  down  anywhere.  Several  socialist 
papers  offered  him  jobs  as  editor,  but  he  declined  to 
be  tied  to  any  one  place.  He  lived  on  what  the  socialist 
locals  would  pay  him  for  his  speeches,  which  was  not 
much,  and  spent  most  of  his  leisure  time  studying.  Women 
he  treated  as  he  would  men,  like  comrades,  and  fought  shy 
of  flirtations.  On  the  other  hand,  he  loved  children. 

Nothing  definite  was  known  about  his  past.  Rumor  had 
it  that  he  was  born  on  a  farm  in  Minnesota,  of  Swedish  par 
ents,  that  he  had  married  when  he  was  quite  young,  and  that 


174  THE   ROAD 

his  wife  was  a  Catholic.  Shortly  after  his  marriage  he 
became  a  socialist.  That  started  trouble  in  the  family.  His 
wife  refused  to  give  him  a  divorce,  and  he  left  home. 

He  had  met  Leon  Breen  a  year  before  the  latter's  death  in 
the  course  of  a  stubbornly  conducted  strike.  They  became 
great  friends  and  he  had  often  been  to  Mrs.  Breen's  flat 
when  her  husband  lived.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had 
come  to  her  home  since  she  was  a  widow.  .  .  . 

"It's  two  years  since  you've  been  away,"  Ada  said  as 
they  were  finishing  their  coffee.  "What've  you  done  with 
yourself  all  this  time?  I  heard  you  were  on  the  Pacific 
Coast  and  I  saw  your  name  in  the  papers  in  connection 
with  some  builders'  strike  there." 

Hillstrom  narrated  briefly  the  events  of  those  two  years. 
It  was  one  continuous  round  of  strikes  and  trouble  with 
the  authorities  everywhere.  He  had  put  in  some  time 
hoboing  in  order  to  study  the  situation  among  the  casual 
workers  and  unemployed;  had  slept  under  the  open  skies 
in  California.  On  the  way  back  East  he  had  stopped  off 
in  Arizona  and  Colorado  to  look  over  the  situation  among 
the  miners  there. 

"It's  tough,  tough  everywhere,"  he  said,  the  smile  dis 
appearing  from  his  eyes.  "Capital  has  a  strangle  hold  upon 
the  workers,  upon  the  community.  There've  been  strikes, 
numerous  strikes.  But  strikes  no  longer  get  the  worker 
much;  they  only  exhaust  him.  The  workers  and  their 
families  put  up  a  brave  fight,  suffer  and  gain  nothing.  No 
matter  how  long  the  mines  are  idle  the  capitalist  doesn't 
miss  his  breakfast;  the  worker  misses  his.  And  when  the 
strike  is  apparently  won  and  the  men  return  to  their  jobs 


FRANK   HILLSTROM  175 

victorious,  their  victory  turns  to  ashes.  After  some  weeks 
the  employers  find  ways  and  means  of  taking  back  that 
which  they've  given.  The  worker  isn't  getting  ahead.  .  .  ." 

Hillstrom  pulled  at  his  pipe  several  times,  blew  a  cloud 
of  smoke,  and  continued: 

"The  government  forces  everywhere  are  ranged  on  the 
side  of  the  employers.  The  workers  go  to  the  polls,  vote, 
elect  officials,  and  immediately  they  are  elected  these  offi 
cials  turn  around  and  kick  the  workers  in  the  shin.  Homes 
of  workmen  are  invaded  without  any  process  of  law.  Meet 
ings  are  broken  up  without  regard  to  the  constitution.  You 
have  to  pinch  yourself  at  times  to  make  sure  that  what 
you  see  is  not  a  nightmare,  but  reality,  that  it  is  actually 
happening  on  American  soil." 

"Are  we  on  the  eve  of  revolution?"  Hilda,  her  mind  set 
aflame  by  the  injustices  he  had  described,  asked.  "Are  not 
these  workers  going  to  rebel?" 

Hillstrom  pondered.  It  was  a  question  he  had  been 
asked  often  in  his  career  as  a  socialist  speaker  and  agi 
tator. 

"Revolutions,"  he  spoke  up  finally,  "do  not  go  by  rules 
and  it  isn't  wise  to  make  prophecies  in  such  matters.  The 
conditions  I've  told  about  are  bad,  but  they  aren't  universal 
— yet.  Like  the  lynching  of  negroes,  the  terrorizing  of 
white  workmen  is  still  confined  to  certain  parts  of  the  coun 
try  only,  and  to  small  minorities.  These  minorities  are  like 
a  gangrened  toe.  Sometimes  such  a  toe  may  kill  a  giant. 
Such  an  inflamed  and  desperate  minority  may  sometimes 
sweep  a  whole  country  after  it  into  civil  war.  In  the  main, 
however,  it  does  not  seem  as  if  we  were  ripe  for  revolution. 


176  THE   ROAD 

The  gulf  between  classes  is  not  yet  universal.  Our  discon 
tent  has  not  reached  the  breaking  point.  The  cup  of  bit 
terness  and  oppression  is  not  yet  full.  .  .  ." 

"Not  full?"  Hilda  was  trembling  as  she  spoke.  "It  is 
full,  more  than  full  for  those  who  fall  victim  to  the  present 
system.  The  negro  who  is  lynched,  the  striker  who  is  shot 
down  by  soldiers — his  cup  is  full." 

"It  is,"  Hillstrom  agreed  with  her. 

"And  what  is  his  reward,  what  promise  does  socialism 
hold  for  this  man?"  Hilda  pursued  her  questioning. 

Hillstrom  smiled. 

"You  talk,"  he  said,  "as  if  socialism  were  religion.  It 
isn't.  It  holds  no  promise  for  the  dead.  .  .  ." 

"For  that  matter,"  he  continued  after  a  brief  reflec 
tion,  "socialism  holds  no  promise  for  those  living  to-day. 
It  holds  no  promise  for  us  personally;  for  you,  Mrs.  Breen, 
myself.  .  .  .  Our  generation  will  not  benefit  by  it.  We 
shall  not  even  live  to  see  it.  Our  reward  lies  in  the  knowl 
edge  that  future  generations  will  live  in  a  better  world  than 
we  are  living  in,  that  they  will  suffer  less  than  we  are  suffer 
ing,  and  that  we  have  helped  bring  this  better  world  about. 
...  As  far  as  personal  compensation — we  shall  be  counted 
with  the  dead.  .  .  ." 

They  became  silent.  It  was  as  if  his  last  words  had 
drawn  aside  a  veil  and  they  were  all  looking  into  the 
future. 

Willy  in  the  next  room  had  taken  down  his  violin.  In 
one  voice  they  asked  him  to  play. 

Hillstrom  accompanied  Hilda  home  and  on  the  way  over 
they  talked  about  the  Middle  West,  the  life  in  the  small 


FRANK  HILLSTROM  177 

cities  there  and  on  the  farms.  She  was  circumspect  about 
mentioning  her  birthplace,  and  Hillstrom  did  not  mention 
his.  But  she  had  a  feeling  as  if  Hillstrom  and  herself  had 
always  lived  on  adjoining  farms  and  that  they  had  now 
met  after  only  a  brief  separation.  .  .  . 

While  she  was  putting  the  child  to  bed  Hillstrom  sur 
veyed  her  two  rooms.  The  place  was  tidy  and  orderly. 
In  spite  of  its  poverty  it  was  inviting  and  homelike.  .  .  . 
It  was  remarkable,  he  mused,  what  an  instinct  women  had 
for  home.  ...  He  was  thinking  how  long  it  was  since 
he  had  had  a  home,  since  he  had  seen  his  children,  the 
children  who  were  raised  by  their  mother  to  despise  him. 

He  shook  off  his  reminiscences  and  began  looking  through 
some  of  the  pamphlets  in  the  book  case.  They  were  familiar. 
He  rose  to  go. 

"I'm  leaving  for  Boston  to-morrow,"  he  said,  holding  the 
knob  of  the  door.  "There's  a  strike  on  there  and  they've 
asked  me  to  help  out.  When  I  get  back  we  shall  all  have 
to  spend  an  evening  together  again.  Have  you  popped  corn 
lately?  No?  Neither  have  I.  Well,  we  shall  get  together 
and  pop  corn  and  have  a  regular  party.  .  .  ." 

•  •"•''•  •  •  '•' 

Hilda  was  looking  forward  to  Hillstrom's  coming.  Of 
the  few  people  she  had  met  since  leaving  Chicago  he  came 
nearest  to  being  her  own  kind.  They  had  many  memories 
of  life  in  the  corn  belt  of  the  Mid- West  in  common.  They 
had  the  same  background  of  a  country  schoolhouse.  And 
he  was  a  personality  in  the  socialist  movement.  There  were 
many  things  she  meant  to  ask  him  when  he  came  back.  .  .  . 
But  he  did  not  come  back  at  the  end  of  two  weeks.  From 


i;8  THE   ROAD 

the  socialist  paper  she  learned  that  a  big  textile  strike  had 
broken  out  in  several  New  England  states  and  Hilistrom 
was  directing  it.  ... 

Over  Mrs.  Breen  a  change  had  suddenly  come;  she  lost 
her  cheerfulness.  Her  friendship  toward  Hilda  was  not 
lessened,  but  she  was  depressed  and  silent.  After  a  week 
of  this  Hilda  asked  her  what  the  trouble  was. 

They  were  in  the  restaurant  eating  their  lunch  and  Ada 
did  not  make  a  direct  reply.  On  the  way  back  to  the  fac 
tory  she  said  casually: 

"My  mother's  been  over  to  see  me." 

"Your  mother?"  Hilda  exclaimed.    "It  must  be  very  nice." 

"No,  it's  not,"  Mrs.  Breen  countered.  "I  wish  she 
hadn't  come." 

And  then  she  quickly  plunged  into  something  else. 

"There's  a  socialist  ball  Saturday,"  she  said,  "and  we  want 
to  go.  You  bring  the  child  over  to  my  place  and  stay  over 
Sunday.  That'll  settle  the  question  of  taking  care  of  him. 
Willy  can  stay  with  him." 

They  went  to  the  ball  and  Hilda  was  amazed  at  the 
number  of  friends  Ada  had.  They  were  not  alone  for  a 
moment  all  evening  long,  but  when  the  time  came  for  them 
to  go  home  Ada  managed  things  so  that  she  and  Hilda  left 
the  hall  unescorted. 

In  the  train  Ada  explained  her  conduct  to  Hilda. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "you're  wondering  why  with  my 
acquaintance  and  with  the  many  friends  I  have,  I  am  work 
ing  in  a  sweatshop.  Many Ve  been  wondering.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact  I've  been  offered  jobs  by  various  unions,  jobs 


FRANK   HILLSTROM  179 

that  are  much  easier  work  and  paying  twice  as  much  as  I'm 
earning  as  a  factory  hand.  But  I  declined  these  jobs  and 
prefer  to  stay  where  I  am.  .  .  ." 

Ada  was  silent  for  some  moments,  looking  for  words, 
looking  for  a  way  of  making  herself  understood  without 
becoming  indelicate.  Finally  she  spoke,  her  voice  lowered 
a  bit. 

"You  see,"  she  began,  "life  is  a  puzzle  and  people  are 
a  puzzle.  They  are  good  and  they  are  bad.  My  husband 
once  read  to  me  from  Heine  what  the  great  German  poet 
said  of  himself:  'I  am  a  tragedy,  I  am  a  comedy;  I  am  a 
beast,  I  am  a  devil,  I  am  God/  Well,  that's  what  all  of 
us  are.  The  beast  is  traveling  alongside  of  the  God  in  most 
of  us. 

"All  of  my  socialist  friends  you've  met  at  the  ball  ro-night 
are  fine  men,  idealists.  In  theory  they  are  advanced  and 
free  people;  in  reality,  however,  they  haven't  traveled  far 
afield  from  their  grandfathers.  They  are  rooted  to  the 
same  prejudices.  In  theory  all  of  them  believe  in  free  love 
and  consider  the  marriage  ceremony  nothing  but  a  bar 
baric  custom.  ...  In  practice.  .  .  .  Well,  in  practice  most 
of  them  like  to  see  their  daughters  and  sisters  married  prop 
erly — securely.  ...  In  practice  the  woman  who,  like  my 
self,  has  followed  her  belief,  lived  up  to  it  and  dispensed 
with  the  marriage  ceremony,  especially  if  she's  a  widow,  is 
regarded  by  most  of  them  with  a  certain  amount  of  suspi 
cious  irony.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  very  best  among  these  idealists 
do  not  hesitate  to  look  upon  a  woman  in  my  position  as  a 
possible  subject  for  a  discreet  adventure.  .  .  . 

"I  have  had  this  attitude  taken  toward  me  once  or  twice 


i8o  THE   ROAD 

shortly  after  my  husband's  death,  and  I  decided  then  and 
there  that  I  would  rather  sacrifice  comfort  than  sacrifice 
my  dignity.  Hence  it  is  that  I  stay  in  the  sweatshop  where 
I  am  sure  not  to  meet  my  former  acquaintances,  and  that  I 
go  home  unescorted  whenever  I  come  in  contact  with  them 
at  an  affair  like  that  of  to-night. 

"I  don't  know,"  Ada  added  after  some  reflection,  "that 
the  viewpoint  I'm  taking  is  exactly  right.  But  any  other 
viewpoint  would  be  humiliating  to  me.  To  surrender  isn't 
in  my  blood.  I'll  step  aside,  but  I'll  not  go  back  on  a 
principle." 

Every  three  or  four  weeks  thereafter  they  went  to  a 
socialist  affair,  and  every  time  they  went  Hilda  and  her 
child  stayed  with  Ada  until  Sunday  night.  The  largest 
socialist  ball  of  the  year  was  held  in  the  last  part  of  Janu 
ary.  It  was  an  affair  lasting  until  four  in  the  morning. 
Mrs.  Breen  and  Hilda  started  for  home  a  little  after  one. 
It  was  a  cold,  frosty  night,  and  when  they  got  to  the  flat 
Ada  made  coffee.  They  talked  commonplaces  as  they  drank, 
and  then  Hilda  went  and  sat  down  on  the  lounge  on  which 
her  bed  was  made.  Ada  came  and  sat  beside  her. 

"My  mother  was  here  to  see  me  last  night."  She  imparted 
this  as  one  imparts  news  that  is  unpleasant. 

"What  does  she  want?"  Hilda  asked.  It  seemed  the  only 
appropriate  question. 

"She  wants  me  to  get  married,"  Ada  said  with  a  dull 
laugh. 

Hilda  looked  puzzled. 

"Yes."  Ada  turned  her  eyes  on  Hilda,  and  they  were 
very  sad  and  unhappy.  "There's  a  friend  of  the  family,  a 


FRANK  HILLSTROM  181 

distant  relative,  in  fact,  who  lost  his  wife  about  a  year 
ago,  and  he  wants  to  marry  me.  My  mother  thinks  I  ought 
to  kiss  his  hand  for  wanting  me.  He's  rich.  However,  I 
think  he's  quite  a  decent  man.  He  told  my  mother  that 
he  didn't  hold  it  in  the  least  against  me  that  I  had  lived 
with  my  husband  in  a  free  love  union,  that  he  could  un 
derstand  and  respect  my  ideas  and  beliefs.  He  sent  her 
over  to  ask  me  whether  I'd  see  him." 

"Will  you  see  him?"  The  question  slipped  Hilda's 
tongue. 

"No,"  Mrs.  Breen  said  quietly.  "I  still  love  my  husband. 
I  love  his  memory." 

They  slept  late  the  following  morning  and  it  was  nearly 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  they  finished  their  din 
ner.  They  had  barely  got  up  from  the  table  when  there 
was  a  knock  on  the  door  and  Ada's  mother  and  sister 
entered.  Ada  was  visibly  annoyed.  However,  she  pro 
ceeded  to  make  the  best  of  it  and  introduced  Hilda. 

Her  mother  started  talking  to  Hilda  in  Yiddish,  and  Ada 
had  to  tell  her  that  her  friend  was  not  a  Jewess.  The  old 
woman  immediately  straightened  up  and  drew  back  as  if 
she  had  suddenly  become  aware  of  an  unexpected  danger. 
She  looked  from  Hilda  to  her  daughter  and  her  look 
seemed  to  be  saying:  "Yes,  I  see  the  company  you  are 
in." 

Hilda  felt  awkward  and  on  the  plea  that  it  would  soon 
be  dark  started  for  home  with  the  child. 

For  the  next  four  weeks  Ada  never  mentioned  her  mother 
to  Hilda.  Willy  once  dropped  a  remark  about  his  grand 
mother's  frequent  calls,  but  Ada  never  spoke  of  them  now. 


1 82  THE   ROAD 

She  was  preoccupied  and  seemed  to  be  making  up  her  mind 
to  something.  .  .  .  Hilda  was  wondering  whether  her 
mother  wasn't  winning  over  Ada  to  marry  the  rich  relative. 
As  they  stepped  out  of  the  factory  into  the  street  one 
evening  Ada  suddenly  announced: 

"I'm  going  to  Chicago.    We're  moving  to  Chicago." 

Hilda  was  dazed. 

"Why?"  she  gasped. 

"To  get  away  from  New  York,"  Ada  answered.  "I've  had 
my  fill  of  it.  There  are  shops  in  Chicago.  I  can  make  my 
living  anywhere. 

"Come,  let's  walk  a  ways."  She  dropped  her  formal 
tone.  "I'm  suffocating. 

"Something's  been  weighing  me  down  for  months."  Ada 
was  speaking  feverishly  now.  "I  didn't  know  what  it  was. 
But  it  dawned  upon  me  recently.  It's  New  York.  I'm 
sick  of  it,  sick  of  the  people  in  it;  sick  of  my  relatives. 
I  must  either  run  from  it  or  succumb  to  it.  I  shall  run. 
.  .  .  You  can't  stay  in  New  York  and  be  just  a  human  be 
ing.  Here  you  must  be  classified,  labeled,  tagged.  You  are 
a  banker,  a  cloakmaker,  a  Jew,  an  Italian,  an  Irishman,  and 
woe  to  you  if  you  don't  live  up  to  the  prejudices  of  your 
class.  You'll  be  scorned  until  the  earth  burns  under 
foot.  .  .  ." 

Hilda  asked  her  whether  she  knew  any  one  in  Chicago. 
Ada  had  friends  there,  London  friends.  They  advised  her 
to  come,  asked  her  to  come. 

"I  don't  know  how  much  different  Chicago  is  from  New 
York,"  she  continued  in  a  more  thoughtful  strain,  "but  I 
hope  it  is  different.  At  any  rate,  it's  nearer  to  the  America 


FRANK   HILLSTROM  183 

I  have  been  dreaming  of  in  England,  the  America  of  great 
distances,  of  vast  stretches  of  land,  of  native  sons  and  daugh 
ters, — not  the  America  of  five  million  foreigners  from  all  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  jostling  each  other,  getting  in  each  other's 
way,  and  glaring  and  cursing  at  each  other.  I  want  to  see 
that  other  America.  I  want  my  boy  to  see  it. 

"You  couldn't  come  along  with  us,  Hilda,  could  you?'* 
Ada's  eyes  were  full  and  her  voice  choked  with  tears  as  she 
asked  this. 

Hilda  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  was  wondering 
whether  her  friend  suspected  the  reason  why  she  had  left 
Chicago.  She  would  not  care  if  she  did.  .  .  . 

"No,"  Hilda  said,  "I  couldn't  come  with  you,  I  couldn't." 
Her  eyes,  too,  were  filling. 

Ada  decided  to  leave  the  first  week  in  April.  She  needed 
a  month  to  dispose  of  her  household  effects.  In  the  next 
few  weeks  her  house  was  daily  growing  more  empty.  She 
was  selling  the  furniture  piece  by  piece.  With  the  books 
it  was  a  harder  matter.  She  and  Willy  spent  evenings  going 
over  them,  selecting,  deciding.  .  .  .  Every  book  was  asso 
ciated  with  memories  of  their  husband  and  father.  .  .  . 

Hilda  was  coming  to  Mrs.  Breen  every  evening  now.  It 
was  hard  to  part  from  her.  7T would  be  long  before  she 
would  find  another  such  friend.  .\  . 

On  a  Thursday  night  late  in  March  Mrs.  Breen  set  the 
date  for  their  departure.  They  were  to  leave  exactly  a 
week  hence  and  they  would  reach  Chicago  on  a  Saturday 
morning.  She  would  write  her  friends  to  meet  them  on 
Saturday  morning.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   XIV 
FIRE  AND  DEATH 

IT  was  Mrs.  Breen's  last  day  at  the  factory  and  from 
early  morning  a  quiet  sadness  had  been  hovering  over  Hilda. 
She  was  thinking  of  Chicago,  and  more  especially  of  Still- 
well.  Her  friend  would  soon  be  so  near  her  home.  A 
blind  impulse  to  send  greetings  tugged  at  her  heart.  But 
greetings  to  whom?  Two  graves  in  the  cemetery  rose  be 
fore  her  eyes.  The  one  covered  with  green  grass  and  with 
a  stone  at  its  head — that  was  her  mother.  The  other  grave, 
still  fresh  with  the  imprint  of  feet  about  it — that  was  her 
father  immediately  after  the  funeral. 

Stillwell,  beautiful  Stillwell!  Would  she  never,  never 
see  it  again?  Would  she  be  stumbling  her  way  up  dingy 
hallways  to  top  floors  of  tenements  all  her  life?  Would  she 
always  be  going  up  ten  stories  high  to  her  work?  Would 
she  be  cooped  up  in  New  York  the  rest  of  her  days?  Would 
her  feet  never  touch  the  soft  earth  again? 

Or  was  it  all  a  dream?  She  stopped  her  work  and  ran 
her  eyes  over  the  entire  length  of  the  loft.  Alas,  'twas 
no  dream!  The  shop  was  throbbing,  bursting  with  energy. 
It  seemed  to  Hilda  that  she  had  never  before  seen  the 
machines  racing  at  such  speed.  But  she  recalled  that  it 
was  Saturday.  The  hundreds  of  employees  were  winding 


FIRE  AND   DEATH  185 

up  the  week's  work  and  the  wind-up  was  always  fever 
ish.  .  .  . 

She  was  waiting  for  the  whistle  in  a  neighboring  factory 
which  was  the  signal  for  the  stopping  of  the  machines  in 
their  own.  She  was  impatient  for  the  day  to  be  over.  Im 
mediately  after  supper  she  would  take  the  child  and  go 
over  to  Ada.  She  meant  to  spend  every  moment  she  could 
spare  with  her  friend  in  those  last  few  days.  .  .  . 

She  was  waiting  for  the  whistle  when  a  piercing  cry  sud 
denly  lifted  Hilda  out  of  her  chair.  It  was  as  if  the  engine 
of  a  train  had  dashed  past  her.  But  it  was  no  engine;  no 
train.  What  it  was.  .  .  .  What  it  was  seemed  impossible, 
unbelievable,  could  not  be.  ...  But  it  was.  .  .  .  The  place 
was  on  fire.  .  .  .  The  shop  was  burning.  .  .  .  The  paper 
patterns,  silks,  voiles,  lingerie — were  burning.  .  .  .  The  wild 
shriek  was  coming  from  the  breasts  of  hundreds  of  work 
ers.  .  .  . 

It  was  but  an  instant  from  the  time  Hilda  heard  the 
shriek  until  she  took  in  the  situation,  but  the  instant  seemed 
like  an  age.  .  .  .  The  fire  had  in  that  instant  grown  twice, 
three  times.  A  third  of  the  loft  was  on  fire.  The  floor,  the 
ceiling,  the  walls  were  burning.  The  machines  were  burn 
ing.  The  fire  was  eating  up  the  materials  in  the  bins.  .  .  . 
It  was  licking  up  the  remnants  under  the  machines,  chairs. 
...  It  was  crawling  up  to  their  feet;  it  was  sweeping  over 
their  heads.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  stampede  for  doors,  for  elevators.  -.  -.  . 
Frantic  leaping  over  machines  ...  a  crashing.  .  .  .  Arms, 
breasts,  shoulders,  were  driving  onward,  forward,  and  meet 
ing  with  resistance  from  other  arms,  breasts,  shoulders.  .  .  . 


i86  THE   ROAD 

Hilda  was  caught  in  the  midst  of  this  swaying,  screaming, 
agonized  human  mass.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  through  the  sea  of  shrill,  maddened  voices  she 
heard  her  name.  .  .  .  Some  one  was  calling  her.  .  .  . 
"Hilda!!!" 

She  recognized  Ada's  voice.  Her  friend  was  calling  her. 
.  .  .  She  tried  to  turn  around  in  the  direction  from  which 
she  thought  she  heard  the  voice  come,  but  her  body  was 
wedged  in.  ...  She  was  in  a  prison.  .  .  .  Only  her  head 
she  could  still  move.  .  .  . 

"Ada!"  she  called  back.    "Ada!  Ada!" 

And  then  she  caught  sight  of  her  friend.  They  were 
only  three  feet  apart.  Their  eyes  met,  but  only  for  an 
instant.  The  next  moment  Ada  had  been  pushed  to  one  side. 
A  dozen  bodies,  heads  had  interposed  between  them. 

But  the  instant  sufficed.  .  .  .  She  had  never  seen  any 
human  being  look  the  way  Ada  did.  .  .  .  She  had  never  seen 
such  eyes.  .  .  .  Eyes  that  had  known  such  terror,  could 
not  live.  .  .  .  There  was  death  in  Ada's  eyes.  .  .  .  She 
would  die.  .  .  .  She  would  die  ... 

Were  her  eyes  like  that  too?  .  .  .  Would  she,  Hilda, 
too  die?  Yes,  she  would  die.  .  .  .  They  would  all  die. 
.  .  .  She  would  die  together  with  Ada.  .  .  .  She  would  .  .  . 

The  mass  of  people  that  held  her  as  if  in  a  vise  suddenly 
became  as  soft  as  butter,  while  her  own  elbows,  head,  shoul 
ders  felt  like  steel.  .  .  .  She  was  hewing  her  way.  .  .  .  She 
had  hewed  her  way  through.  .  .  .  She  was  outside  that  mass. 
.  .  .  Where  was  Ada? 

There  was  no  Ada.  .  .  .  The  crowd  had  carried  her  off 
with  it.  ...  The  crowd  was  now  like  a  brick  wall.  . 


FIRE   AND    DEATH  187 

Hilda  was  outside  that  wall.  .  .  .  She  would  never  become 
mixed  with  it  again.  .  .  . 

"Ada!!!     Ada!!!    Ada!!!" 

She  shrieked  until  she  felt  her  eyes  bulging.  ...  It  was 
useless.  .  .  .  Hundreds  of  voices  were  shrieking  precisely 
as  her  own.  .  .  .  They  were  calling  names  of  children,  par 
ents,  brothers.  .  .  .  She  would  not  find  Ada  any  more.  .  .  . 
She  would  die  alone.  .  .  .  She  would  die.  .  .  . 

Raymond — her  child.  .  .  .  What  would  happen  to  Ray 
mond?  .  .  .  What  would  become  of  him?  .  .  .  How  he 
would  wait  for  her  to-night.  .  .  .  What  would  his  waiting 
end  in?  ...  She  would  never  come.  ...  He  would  never 
know.  .  .  .  Never  remember  her.  .  .  .  Nothing.  ...  It 
would  all  end  in  nothing,  as  if  she  had  never  lived.  .  .  . 
Never  lived.  .  .  . 

Some  one  was  choking  her.  .  .  .  Smoke,  hot  smoke.  .  .  . 
But  her  arm.  .  .  .  Who  was  gripping  her  arm?  .  .  .  Who? 
.  .  .  Mrs.  Walsh.  .  .  .  Go?  Of  course  she  would  go  with 
Mrs.  Walsh.  .  .  .  Why  was  Mrs.  Walsh  dragging  her  so? 
.  .  .  Wasn't  she  coming?  .  .  .  She  was  coming.  .  .  . 

A  door.  .  .  .  They  were  in  front  of  a  door.  .  .  .  They 
were  pounding  .  .  .  pounding  .  .  .  pounding.  .  .  .  Would 
it  open?  .  .  .  Would  it  ever  open?  ...  It  opened.  .  .  . 
The  elevator  had  come.  .  .  .  Would  they  all  get  in?  .  .  . 
Would  she  be  among  those  who  got  in?  ...  What  if  she 
did  not  get  in?  .  .  .  Her  poor  baby.  .  .  . 

They  were  moving.  .  .  .  The  odor  of  smoke  ceased.  .  .  . 
Cold  air.  .  .  .  Light.  .  .  .  The  street.  .  .  .  They  were  in 
the  street.  ...  A  policeman  guided  them  to  the  opposite 
sidewalk.  .  .  There  Hilda  stood  still.  .  .  She  was  wait- 


i88  THE   ROAD 

ing.  .  .  .  She  wanted  the  officer  to  guide  her  further,  more. 
.  .  .  But  he  had  already  dashed  back  into  the  burning 
building.  .  .  . 

She  had  recovered  her  thoughts  fully.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  knew 
exactly  what  had  happened.  The  factory  was  on  fire,  but 
she  had  been  saved.  .  .  .  Little  Raymond  wouldn't  be  sent 
to  a  "home."  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  saved.  .  .  .  But  there  was  no 
time  to  waste  rejoicing.  .  .  .  She  must  find  Ada.  .  .  . 

Fire  engines  were  clanging,  coming.  .  .  .  She  had  never 
seen  so  many  fire  engines  in  her  life.  .  .  .  They  were  roping 
off  the  street  about  the  building.  .  .  .  She  was  pushed  back. 
She  must  go  over  to  the  main  entrance.  .  .  .  That  was 
where  Ada  and  the  crowd  must  be.  ...  They  would  come 
out  that  way.  .  .  .  She  made  a  rush  for  the  main  entrance. 

The  firemen  wouldn't  let  her  pass.  Some  one  was  advis 
ing  her  to  go  around.  It  was  the  only  way  to  reach  the 
main  entrance  now.  .  .  .  She  ran  around  the  block,  two 
blocks,  four  blocks.  .  .  .  Finally  she  saw  the  front  of  the 
building.  .  .  .  Here  there  were  again  ropes.  .  .  .  She  got 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  rope.  .  .  .  The  police  were  spread 
ing  a  net.  .  .  .  Other  men  jumped  in  and  volunteered  to 
hold  it.  ...  The  net  was  ready.  ...  It  was  for  the  girls, 
the  men  who  were  on  the  ledges,  clinging  to  window  sills 
ten  stories  above  ground.  The  police  were  making  signs 
to  them.  .  .  .  They  were  shouting  to  them  to  jump  into  the 
net.  .  .  . 

A  young  girl  gathered  her  skirt  as  if  she  were  about  to 
cross  a  puddle  of  water  and  jumped.  .  .  .  Things  became 
dimmed  before  Hilda's  eyes.  Was  she  at  a  circus?  .  .  . 
Was  all  this  mere  play?  ...  A  shout  came  ...  a  shout 


FIRE  AND   DEATH  189 

of  terror.  .  .  .  Horror  in  the  eyes  of  the  people  about  her. 
.  .  .  The  body  of  the  girl  had  broken  through  the  net  and 
was  lying  on  the  curbstone,  with  head  split  in  four 
parts.  .  .  . 

Another  body  came  hurtling  through  the  air.  .  .  .  Voices 
were  shouting  above  not  to  jump ;  it  meant  death.  .  .  .  But 
the  girls,  the  women,  the  men  on  the  ledges  did  not  hear, 
did  not  wish  to  hear.  .  .  .  They  were  jumping,  their  bodies 
striking  the  cold  stone  pavement  with  a  loud  cracking  of 
bones.  .  .  . 

Hilda  ran.  .  .  . 

She  was  without  hat  or  coat.  .  .  .  Evening  was  falling, 
a  raw  March  evening.  .  .  .  She  did  not  feel  the  cold.  .  .  . 
In  the  elevated  train  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  her.  .  .  .  But 
it  didn't  matter  any  more.  .  .  .  The  whole  world  didn't 
matter.  .  .  .  She  wept  as  if  there  were  no  people  about 
her 

A  neighbor  volunteered  to  sit  up  with  little  Raymond 
until  she  came  back,  and  Hilda,  after  feeding  the  child  and 
putting  him  to  bed,  started  for  Ada's  home.  The  place 
was  dark,  but  in  the  hall  several  women  were  standing. 

Mrs.  Breen  "had  not  come  home  yet,"  the  women  in 
formed  her.  She  asked  about  Willy,  and  was  told  that  a 
sister  of  Mrs.  Breen,  and  her  husband,  had  been  over  a  few 
minutes  earlier  and  had  taken  the  boy  with  them.  They 
had  left  their  address.  Hilda  took  the  address,  but  instead 
of  going  to  Ada's  sister  she  went  back  to  the  factory.  .  :.  . 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  she  reached  it. 

All  the  side  streets  leading  to  the  building  were  packed 


THE   ROAD 

with  ambulances.  The  fire  was  in  check  and  search  was 
now  going  on  in  the  ruins  for  the  dead.  The  bodies  of 
victims  were  being  lowered  from  the  tenth  floor  in  rope  nets. 

"Were  there  many  people  burned?"  a  man  standing 
alongside  of  Hilda  asked  of  another. 

"About  two  hundred,  they  say." 

Hilda  felt  that  she  was  sinking,  but  quickly  gathered  her 
strength.  That  was  no  time  to  lose  one's  self.  She  even 
mustered  up  courage  and  inquired  where  the  ambulances 
with  the  dead  were  going. 

"To  the  morgue,"  she  was  told,  and  was  given  instruc 
tions  how  to  get  there. 

In  front  of  the  morgue  hundreds  of  parents,  sisters,  broth 
ers,  who  had  missed  their  relatives,  were  standing  in  line, 
weeping,  moaning.  .  .  . 

Hilda  went  up  to  a  policeman,  told  him  that  she  was 
missing  a  friend,  and  wanted  to  know  how  soon  she  would 
be  permitted  to  search  for  her  among  the  dead. 

"Did  you  work  in  the  factory,  too?"  the  officer  asked. 
He  was  a  man  close  to  fifty,  probably  had  daughters  of 
his  own. 

"Yes,"  Hilda  said.    Her  mouth  was  twitching. 

"Wait  here  a  moment."  The  officer  spoke  softly.  "The 
sergeant  is  coming  this  way,  I'll  ask  him.  He'll  probably 
know  something  about  it." 

The  sergeant  knew.  They  had  taken  out  of  the  building 
one  hundred  and  twenty-five  bodies  thus  far.  They  expected 
that  there  were  another  fifty  there.  Many  of  the  victims 
were  in  awful  shape,  and  it  would  be  four  or  five  o'clock 


FIRE   AND   DEATH  191 

by  the  time  the  bodies  would  be  in  condition  for  identifi 
cation. 

Hilda  thanked  the  officer  and  went  home. 

She  went  to  bed  without  undressing.  ...  A  dim  light  was 
burning  in  the  room.  She  was  gazing  at  her  child  and 
suddenly  little  Raymond's  features  began  to  grow,  distend, 
and  the  child  was  not  little  Raymond  at  all,  but  Willy, 
Willy  Breen.  .  .  .  Yes,  little  Raymond  was  Willy,  and 
she,  Hilda,  was  not  Hilda,  but  Ada  Breen.  ...  It  was 
Ada  who  had  saved  herself,  and  she,  Hilda,  who  was 
dead.  .  .  .  Little  Raymond  was  in  the  nursery,  sleeping 
restlessly,  and  would  be  taken  to  a  "home"  the  next 
day.  .  .  . 

Poor  little  Raymond.  .  .  .  Poor,  dead  Hilda.  .  .  . 

She  jumped  out  of  bed,  turned  the  gas  up,  and  then 
went  to  the  sink  and  washed  her  face  with  cold  water.  .  .  . 
Had  she  been  dreaming?  Had  her  mind  been  wandering? 
At  any  rate,  she  would  not  go  to  sleep  any  more  that  night. 
...  It  was  two  o'clock.  She  would  wait  another  hour 
and  then  she  would  go  to  the  morgue.  .  .  .  Her  child  al 
ways  slept  through  the  night  soundly.  She  would  take  a 
chance  on  his  not  waking  this  time,  too.  .  .  . 

She  reached  the  morgue  a  little  after  four.  The  line  of 
relatives  was  passing  through  the  gate  into  a  big  warehouse 
which  had  been  converted  into  a  temporary  morgue.  .  .  . 
The  regular  morgue  could  not  hold  all  the  victims. 

Hilda  was  among  the  last  to  enter.  People  were  walking 
along  the  walls,  searching  the  long  lines  of  dead,  examining 
the  bodies,  holding  consultations,  hoping  that  the  charred 


i92  THE   ROAD 

and  disfigured  human  beings  before  them  might  not  be  the 
daughters,  sons,  mothers,  they  sought,  slowly  coming  to  the 
realization  that  they  were,  and  sinking  down  beside  the 
bodies  in  mute  agony  or  raving  despair.  .  .  . 

She  recognized  Mrs.  Breen's  mother  and  sister.  They 
were  standing  in  front  of  something  on  the  floor  .  .  .  some 
thing.  .  .  .  Hilda  put  her  hand  to  her  eyes.  .  .  .  No,  it 
could  not  possibly  be  Ada  Breen.  .  .  .  It  could  not.  .  .  . 
Ada 

But  it  was.  .  .  . 


BOOK  III 
ROAD'S  END 


CHAPTER   XV 
THE  TURN 

SHE  was  immersed  in  the  newspapers  the  greater  part 
of  the  day  Sunday.  Four  to  five  pages  of  each  paper  were 
devoted  to  the  fire.  There  were  photographs  of  the  build 
ing  with  its  charred  and  blackened  windows ;  of  the  throngs 
of  parents;  relatives  and  friends  of  the  victims,  as  they 
stood  huddled  together  before  the  morgue  like  frightened 
children;  of  the  grim  lines  of  ambulances;  and  lastly,  of 
the  long  rows  of  the  dead.  .  .  . 

The  tone  of  the  papers  was  shaky.  ...  It  was  as  if 
the  newspapers,  and  whatever  entered  into  their  make-up, 
the  writers,  the  editors,  had  shared  with  the  employees  of 
the  Princess  Waist  Company  the  horrors  of  the  fire,  as 
if  they  had  faced  death,  had  made  up  their  minds  to  die, — 
and  then  lived  to  tell  the  tale.  .  .  .  The  long,  black 
columns  vibrated  with  fear  and  exhaled  the  breath  of 
death.  .  .  . 

Carried  away  by  the  immensity  of  the  tragedy,  some  of 
the  writers  were  riding  their  pens  with  extreme  boldness. 
.  .  .  They  were  speaking  in  harsh  tones  about  neglect  by 
the  city  authorities,  by  the  manufacturers.  ...  It  was  crim 
inal  to  coop  up  human  beings,  women,  girls,  mere  children, 
ten  stories  above  ground  in  the  midst  of  inflammable  mate- 

195 


196  THE   ROAD 

rial.  .  .  .  Work  should  be  brought  down  to  earth.  .  .  .  The 
arrangement  of  the  factory  was  described:  the  rows  upon 
rows  of  machines  with  scant  passageway  between  them. 
The  place  had  been  a  firetrap  from  the  beginning.  ...  It 
was  a  raw  deal  the  workers  were  getting.  .  .  . 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Hilda  went  down  with  the  child  for 
a  walk.  The  street  seemed  to  have  become  like  one  fam 
ily,  sharing  in  a  common  misfortune.  .  .  .  There  were  no 
formalities,  no  introductions.  People  talked  to  one  an 
other  about  the  fire,  about  the  dead.  .  .  .  There  was  pain 
in  every  face,  and  a  smoldering  resentment  in  every  voice. 
.  .  .  Hardly  a  man  in  the  district  but  had  a  daughter,  a 
sister,  a  sweetheart  working  in  just  such  a  factory  as  the 
Princess  had  been,  and  there  was  no  telling  when  their  turn 
would  come.  .  .  . 

She  walked  from  street  to  street.  Here  and  there  a 
crowd  was  gathered  before  a  tenement.  A  girl  from  that 
tenement  had  been  burned  in  the  fire  and  her  remains 
had  been  brought  home  from  the  morgue.  .  .  .  Hilda 
searched  the  faces  of  the  men  in  these  crowds,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  a  mighty  word  spoken  to  them — and  they  would 
rise.  .  .  .  They  would  rise  in  large  numbers,  rise  by  the 
thousands  in  revolt  against  the  social  order.  ...  A  mighty, 
a  powerful  word.  .  .  .  But  who  would  speak  it?  ...  Who 
could  prove  such  a  leader?  Frank  Hillstrom.  .  .  .  She  was 
thinking  of  Hillstrom.  .  .  .  Where  was  he?  ... 

It  had  been  a  poor  Sunday  for  little  Raymond.  .  .  .  She 
had  scarcely  given  him  any  attention,  had  not  played  with 
him  all  day,  and  as  he  lingered  over  his  supper  the  child 
gazed  at  her  with  large  inquisitive  eyes,  but  without  com- 


THE   TURN  197 

plaint  or  whimper.  ...  It  was  as  if  the  little  one  felt  that 
his  mother  was  going  through  a  great  crisis,  and  he,  too, 
was  subdued.  .  .  . 

Hilda  caught  his  gaze  and  a  wave  of  pity  and  reproach 
came  over  her.  The  child  might  have  been  a  helpless  or 
phan  now,  a  waif,  and  there  she  was  not  even  thinking  of 
him,  neglecting  him.  .  .  .  She  took  him  in  her  arms  and 
they  clung  to  one  another  for  a  long  time  like  lovers  who 
had  made  up  after  a  quarrel.  .  .  . 

She  devoted  herself  to  the  child  the  rest  of  the  evening 
and  as  she  caressed  his  head  and  the  somber  little  face  that 
was  searchingly  peering  into  her  own,  she  became  aware  of 
a  change  in  him.  ...  He  was  older.  ...  He  was  .  .  . 
Nobody  would  dispute  it  with  her — make  her  believe  other 
wise.  .  .  .  The  events  of  the  past  thirty  hours  had  had 
their  effect  upon  little  Raymond.  .  .  .  She  and  her  son 
were  nearer  to  one  another, — more  of  an  age  with  one  an 
other.  .  .  .  Soon,  soon  she  would  have  some  one,  if  not  to 
talk  to  her,  at  least  to  listen  to  her.  .  .  . 

Just  before  she  fell  asleep  worry  over  the  future,  her 
future,  their  future,  crowded  out  all  else  from  her  thoughts. 
The  fire  had  thrown  her  existence  out  of  gear.  .  .  .  She 
would  have  to  look  for  work,  look  for  a  job  again.  .  .  . 

The  melancholy,  the  faint  dread,  which  she  invariably 
experienced  just  before  going  out  to  look  for  a  job,  seized 
her.  But  she  shook  off  this  mood  in  the  next  breath.  .  .  . 
After  what  had  happened  the  previous  afternoon  life  held 
no  more  terrors  for  her.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing  she  would 
be  afraid  to  face — she  and  her  child.  .  .  .  Nothing.  .  .  . 
Nothing.  .  .  .  Nothing.  .  .  . 


198  THE    ROAD 

She  and  her  child.  .  .  . 

From  force  of  habit  she  wound  the  clock  to  ring  at  the 
usual  hour  the  next  morning  and,  once  awake,  she  went 
through  with  the  customary  routine,  and  took  the  child  to 
the  nursery.  Then  she  started  for  the  factory.  She  wanted 
to  have  one  more  look  at  it. 

The  elevated  train  was  packed  the  same  as  every  other 
day.  Young  girls,  women,  men  were  going  to  work.  .  .  . 
Almost  every  one  was  absorbed  in  his  newspaper — in  the 
story  of  the  fire.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  faces  were  stolid.  In 
others  fear  was  lurking.  .  .  .  Hilda  had  once  watched  a 
man  administer  a  lashing  to  his  dog.  The  animal  fled, 
but  after  a  little  returned  and,  with  fear  still  lurking  in 
its  eyes,  was  sniffing  for  its  master's  favor.  .  .  . 

She  thought  of  that  incident  as  she  was  gazing  at  the  girls, 
the  women,  the  men,  on  their  way  to  work.  .  .  . 

In  front  of  the  building  were  crowds  of  the  curious.  On 
their  way  to  work  people  stopped  and  gazed  up  to  the  tenth 
story,  where  in  place  of  windows  one  saw  only  deep,  black 
holes.  The  fire  lines  had  been  removed.  The  pavement  had 
been  washed  clean  of  blood.  Before  the  door  of  the  build 
ing  policemen  were  standing.  Sometime  during  the  morn 
ing  a  coroner's  jury  would  visit  the  scene  of  the  fire.  .  .  . 

Hilda  looked  about  for  some  one  she  knew.  Perhaps 
she  would  find  some  of  the  girls  she  worked  with  and  who 
had  escaped.  But  they  were  not  there — not  one.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  week's  wages  due  her.  All  the  employees 
had  a  week's  wages  coming  to  them.  She  wondered  how 
the  girls  would  go  about  collecting  it.  ...  She  thought 


THE  TURN  199 

about  the  union,  Mr.  Raboff.  She  ought  to  go  and  see 
Raboff.  The  few  times  she  had  seen  him  he  had  been  very 
friendly. 

She  started  for  the  headquarters  of  the  union,  but  she 
was  in  no  hurry,  and  she  wandered  slowly  through  the 
streets.  It  was  a  warm  spring  day,  the  kind  of  a  day  to 
forget  one's  troubles.  But  there  was  no  forgetting  for 
her.  .  .  . 

The  faces  she  had  looked  for  in  vain  in  front  of  the 
factory,  she  found  at  the  offices  of  the  union.  The  large 
waiting  room  was  jammed  with  people.  The  girls  who 
had  saved  themselves  from  the  fire  were  there  telling  of 
their  escape  to  eager  listeners.  The  aged  fathers  and  moth 
ers,  the  relatives  and  friends  of  those  killed,  Jews,  Italians, 
Slavs,  all  seemed  united  in  the  fellowship  of  sorrow.  Some 
were  weeping,  others  were  calling  for  justice  and  retribu 
tion.  .  .  .  They  wanted  revenge  on  the  bosses.  .  .  . 

Several  girls  recognized  Hilda  and  smiled  a  greeting  to 
her,  glad  to  welcome  her  among  the  living.  But  she  had 
no  friends  among  them,  and  after  straying  in  the  crowd 
for  some  time  she  went  up  to  the  window  leading  into  the 
inner  office  and  asked  to  see  Mr.  Raboff.  She  gave  her 
name  to  the  girl  attendant. 

Before  the  girl  brought  back  the  answer  hasty  footsteps 
were  heard  behind  the  partition,  a  door  sharply  opened 
and  Raboff,  his  thin,  pallid  face  whiter  than  ever,  his  long 
hair  disheveled,  stood  before  her.  Without  a  word  he  took 
hold  of  both  her  hands  and  literally  pulled  her  into  his 
office. 

When  they  were  seated,  he  gazed  at  her  silently  as  one 


200  THE    ROAD 

does  at  a  child  from  whom  one  had  been  separated  and 
who  had  changed  and  grown  in  the  meantime.  .  .  . 

"I'm  trying  to  make  sure,"  Raboff's  face  twitched  into  a 
strange  smile  as  he  spoke,  "that  it's  you.  You  see,  we 
had  given  you  up  for  dead,  Mrs.  Raboff  and  I." 

He  produced  a  card,  the  card  she  had  signed  that  sum 
mer  Sunday  in  the  park  when  he  first  met  her.  Her 
address  was  on  it. 

"I  was  just  going  to  send  some  one  over  to  your  place 
to  see  what  had  become  of  your  child,"  he  continued.  "I 
believe  you  have  no  relatives  in  New  York.  .  .  ." 

He  was  silent  for  some  moments.  His  forahead  wrinkled 
and  the  dark  circles  about  his  eyes  stood  out  with  tragic 
sharpness.  Hilda  suspected  he  was  thinking  of  Mrs.  Breen. 
She  was  preparing  to  describe  her  last  moments  with  Ada, 
and  awaited  his  question.  But  the  question  was  not  forth 
coming.  Raboff  was  plunged  in  thought. 

The  noise  in  the  waiting  room  was  gaining  in  volume. 
A  girl  came  in  and  informed  him  that  the  place  could  not 
hold  the  crowds.  He  gave  orders  to  divert  them  to  another 
hall  in  the  same  building. 

"What  do  they  want?"  Raboff  suddenly  turned  on  Hilda. 
There  was  agony  in  his  eyes.  She  was  puzzled ;  she  did  not 
understand  him.  He  continued,  speaking  in  a  racked  voice: 

"You  saw  the  crowd.  Not  more  than  a  fifth  of  them 
belong  to  our  organization.  But  be  that  as  it  may.  They 
came  to  us  because  they  have  faith  in  us,  because  they 
know  that  we  are  on  their  side,  that  we  stand  with  the 
workers.  They  want  something.  What  is  it  that  they  want? 
What  do  you  think  they  want?  You  are  one  of  the  people 


THE  TURN  201 

standing  in  the  hall.  You  went  through  the  fire.  They  are 
hysterical  and  cannot  talk  or  think  coherently.  But  you 
are  calm.  You  have  different  blood  in  your  veins.  You 
have  more  self-assurance,  maybe  because  you  were  born  in 
this  country.  ...  I  appoint  you  a  committee  of  one  to 
speak  for  them.  Tell  me  what  they  want  the  union  to  do 
for  them  in  this  crisis.  .  .  ." 

A  curious  feeling  came  over  Hilda.  Raboff  was  in  dead 
earnest.  She  was  to  think,  to  speak  for  the  girls  in  the 
Princess  Waist  Factory,  for  their  parents;  for  the  girls  in 
other  factories.  .  .  .  Raboff  was  speaking  once  more: 

"You  come  to  the  union  as  the  patient  comes  to  the  doc 
tor.  But  the  patient  helps  the  doctor  make  his  diagnosis. 
He  tells  the  physician  what  his  troubles  are,  describes  his 
pains  and  aches.  Now  you  do  as  much  for  us.  Tell  us 
what  ails  you  in  the  shops,  what  you  want,  what  you  must 
have.  Keep  in  mind  that  we  cannot  restore  the  dead,  and 
that  in  practice  we  can  give  only  a  minimum.  .  .  ." 

There  were  many  things  in  Hilda's  mind,  many  vehement 
words  at  the  tip  of  her  tongue  about  the  injustice  of  so 
ciety,  about  the  capitalist  system.  .  .  .  But  Raboff  was  a 
socialist,  he  had  told  her  so,  and  he  was  asking  for  the 
minimum.  .  .  .  She  recalled  her  trip  that  morning;  the  ele 
vated  train.  It  had  been  crowded  as  usual.  People  had 
to  eat,  to  live  and  they  overcame  their  fear  and  went  to 
work.  What  was  the  first  thing  those  people  needed?  What 
would  help  them  most?  She  overcame  a  dryness  in  her 
throat  and  spoke: 

"The  first  thing  to  do,  I  should  say,  is  to  make  the  shops 
safe.  ,  .  ." 


202  THE   ROAD 

Raboff's  face  lighted  up. 

"Stop  right  there/'  he  cried,  "say  no  more.  You've  hit 
the  problem.  Make  the  shops  safe — that  is  a  practical 
answer,  an  American  answer,  I  might  say, — straight  to  the 
point.  That's  what  the  union  will  attempt.  That's  prob 
ably  what  it  may  be  able  to  achieve.  .  .  ." 

He  was  reflecting  for  some  moments  and  Hilda  waited. 
He  again  spoke  up  abruptly: 

"I  want  you  to  work  with  us,  here,  in  the  office." 

Her  breath  was  short.  She  stammered  something  about 
not  being  prepared  for  office  work.  Raboff  picked  up  the 
card  upon  which  her  name  and  address  was  written  in  a 
very  clear,  legible  hand. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are  prepared."  He  spoke  with  assurance. 
"Don't  worry  about  that.  We  need  you,  we  have  work  for 
you.  Can  you  start  right  away?  You  haven't  anything 
you  must  do  now,  this  morning?" 

No,  there  was  nothing  she  had  to  do  that  morning.  Hilda 
was  in  a  daze. 

"Send  in  Miss  Wald,"  he  spoke  into  the  receiver. 

Miss  Wald  entered — a  tall,  dark  Jewish  girl— and  he  told 
her  that  Mrs.  Thorsen  was  to  work  with  them.  Miss  Wald 
might  start  her  with  the  usual  office  routine  now,  but  later 
Mrs.  Thorsen  would  have  most  to  do  with  the  "Making  the 
Shops  Safe"  campaign  which  the  union  was  inaugurating. 

As  Hilda  rose  to  follow  the  office  manager  into  the  next 
room,  Raboff  also  rose,  and  shook  hands  with  her. 

"Good  luck  to  us,"  he  smiled. 

Hilda  was  on  the  verge  of  tears.  Deep  in  her  heart 
a  feeling  of  shame  was  stirring.  Did  the  union  really  need 


THE  TURN  203 

her,  she  was  wondering,  or  was  Mr.  Raboff  trying  to  atone 
for  some  neglect?  .  .  .  Was  it  Mrs.  Breen's  death  that  was 
on  his  conscience — the  fact  that  Ada  could  not,  or  would 
not,  take  a  position  with  the  union;  the  fact  that  she  had 
avoided  contact  with  her  former  friends?  She  felt  that 
Ada  belonged  in  the  place  which  she,  Hilda,  was  getting. 
She  was  profiting  by  her  friend's  death.  .  .  . 

The  dead  were  buried.  More  than  one  hundred  thousand 
people  participated  in  the  demonstration  which  followed 
the  funeral.  The  newspapers  treated  the  affair  with  the 
utmost  respect.  ...  In  the  evening  a  large  mass  meeting 
was  held  in  Carnegie  Hall.  It  was  not  a  labor  gathering, 
but  a  mass  meeting  of  leading  citizens.  The  city  paying 
its  tribute  to  the  dead — so  the  newspapers  announced. 

The  meeting  was  addressed  by  a  bishop,  a  senator,  a 
banker.  Much  fine  oratory  flowed.  The  senator  quoted 
Abraham  Lincoln  on  the  dignity  of  Labor  with  strong 
effect.  The  bishop  dwelt  on  the  life  and  precepts  of  the 
Carpenter  of  Galilee  and  called  upon  the  world  to  rededi- 
cate  itself  to  the  task  of  brotherhood  which  He  had  preached 
and  for  which  He  had  died.  .  .  . 

The  banker,  who  had  come  to  America  as  an  immigrant 
and  had  himself  once  worked  in  a  factory,  addressed  the 
workers  as  "sisters  and  brothers"  and  praised  their  nobility 
of  heart.  From  praise  of  the  workers  he  turned  to  praise 
of  the  country.  He  began  extolling  America  for  the  won 
derful  opportunities  she  offers  to  all,  for  making  no  distinc 
tion  between  rich  and  poor  and — 

The  banker  suddenly  realized  that  he  had  been  carried 


204  THE   ROAD 

away  by  his  own  voice,  that  it  was  not  a  Fourth  of  July 
gathering,  that  his  remarks  were  not  appropriate  to  the 
occasion.  He  stuttered  a  few  unintelligible  phrases  and 
burst  into  tears,  drawing  a  great  deal  of  applause 
thereby.  .  .  . 

Hilda  sat  in  a  box  with  Mrs.  Raboff  and  one  or  two 
other  labor  leaders  and  their  wives.  She  had  paid  a  quar 
ter  of  a  dollar  to  her  neighbor's  girl  to  sit  through  that 
evening  with  the  child,  so  that  she,  Hilda,  could  go  to 
the  meeting.  Toward  the  close  Hillstrom,  who  had  come 
to  New  York  the  same  day  that  Hilda  took  up  her  work 
with  the  union,  but  of  whom  she  had  had  only  a  fleeting 
glimpse  thus  far,  came  up  and  sat  down  beside  her.  When 
the  meeting  was  over  he  walked  home  with  her. 

She  asked  him  whether  he  thought  the  meeting  would 
do  any  good. 

"Words,  words,"  Hillstrom  said,  with  a  deprecating  wave 
of  his  hands.  "We  are  the  greatest  nation  for  words,  for 
making  speeches,  promises  which  we  have  no  intention  to 
fulfil.  If  one- tenth  of  the  beautiful  sentiments  the  speakers 
have  uttered  this  evening  were  carried  out,  we  could  stop 
agitating  for  socialism  to-morrow.  The  world  would  be  a 
Garden  of  Eden  without  it.  All  differences  and  injustices 
would  be  wiped  out  and  the  Golden  Rule  enthroned. 

"But  not  a  word  of  what  has  been  said  to-night  will  be 
put  into  effect,  will  be  carried  out — at  least  not  by  those 
who  said  it.  As  speaker  after  speaker,  well  fed,  well 
groomed,  and  trained  in  the  art  of  oratory,  in  the  trick  of 
carrying  away  his  audience,  went  on  with  his  frenzied  pero 
ration  to-night,  I  was  looking  upon  the  walls  of  Carnegie 


THE  TURN  205 

Hall.  How  cynical  those  walls  must  be  of  us  people,  both 
of  those  who  do  the  fooling,  and  of  those  who  let  them 
selves  be  fooled." 

They  walked  on  silently  for  some  time. 

"But  there  is  some  good  in  these  speeches,  after  all," 
Hillstrom  resumed.  "Society  is  indicting  itself,  our  civiliza 
tion  is  indicting  itself  in  those  speeches.  It  is  making  damag 
ing  admissions  about  its  injustices,  about  its  incapacity  to 
divide  the  loaf  of  human  happiness  fairly  among  all.  .  .  . 
These  admissions  may  be  forgotten  for  the  moment,  but 
they  will  not  be  lost.  .  .  .  They  are  like  promissory  notes. 
They  may  be  long  term  notes,  but  they  will  be  paid.  If 
we  do  not  collect  them,  the  generation  that  follows  us  will. 
And  woe  to  the  masters  on  that  day  of  reckoning!  .  .  ." 

They  had  reached  the  tenement  where  Hilda  lived.  Hill- 
Strom  recalled  it. 

"You  remember,"  he  said,  "we  were  going  to  have  a  pop 
corn  party  some  evening." 

Hilda  remembered.  She  had  been  waiting  for  him  to 
come,  but  the  textile  strike  had  come  along  just  then. 

"Yes,"  he  reflected,  "I  really  shouldn't  make  any  appoint 
ments  or  promises.  I  never  can  tell  whether  I'll  be  able  to 
keep  'em.  I  am  like  the  weathervane,  turning  with  the 
winds,  the  social  winds,  strikes,  trouble.  .  .  ." 

"It's  an  interesting  life,  anyway,"  Hilda  said  with  a  sigh. 

Hillstrom  sought  to  penetrate  her  with  his  gaze.  It  was 
the  first  time  she  had  dropped  a  hint  about  her  personal 
affairs.  He  had  been  wondering  about  her  life.  He  judged 
that  her  past,  like  his  own,  was  a  book  sealed  with  seven 
seals. 


206  THE   ROAD 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  keeps  you  on  the  move,  and  that's  good 
for  a  character  like  myself.  .  .  ." 

"I  suppose,"  he  continued  with  a  smile  in  which  Hilda 
read  an  immense  lot  of  pathos,  "I  suppose  I  am  a  Mephis- 
topheles  of  a  kind.  I  have  broken  away  from  the  bourgeois 
heaven  from  which  I  sprung.  I  despise  it.  It's  good  for 
me  to  keep  busy,  to  keep  roving  from  one  end  of  the  coun 
try  to  the  other.  .  .  . 

"But  we  shall  have  our  popcorn  party  yet."  He  suddenly 
brightened  up.  "We  shall  have  it  soon,  as  soon  as  the 
union  has  reached  some  definite  decision  with  regard  to  the 
campaign  for  making  the  shops  safe." 

"Decision?"  Hilda  repeated.  "I  did  not  know  that  the 
union  had  gone  that  far  with  any  plan." 

"I  have  talked  to  Raboff  and  to  the  other  union  leaders 
to-day,"  Hillstrom  affirmed,  "and  I  laid  some  plans  before 
them.  The  safety  of  the  workers,  to  my  mind,  is  a  mat 
ter  for  the  workers  themselves  to  look  after.  Let  every 
worker  report  the  conditions  in  his  or  her  shop  to  the 
union,  and  let  the  union  report  the  unsafe  shops  to  the 
authorities  and  force  them  to  action." 

The  call  which  the  union  issued  to  the  workers  in  the 
next  few  days  embodied  the  ideas  set  forth  by  Frank 
Hillstrom.  By  the  end  of  the  week  hundreds  of  complaints 
against  unsafe  shops  had  come  in.  Hilda  was  assigned  to 
keep  track  of  these  complaints.  At  the  end  of  a  month 
she  was  working  with  two  assistants. 

During  the  summer  the  campaign  had  grown  too  big 
for  the  union  to  handle.  A  Shop  Safety  Committee  was 
organized  to  take  over  this  work.  The  committee  was  to 


THE  TURN  207 

have  separate  offices  and  was  to  employ  ten  factory  in 
spectors.  Hilda,  because  of  her  affiliation  with  the  cam 
paign  from  the  beginning,  was  among  the  first  to  be  offered 
a  place  with  this  committee.  She  accepted. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  in  September  that  Hilda 
cleared  her  desk  in  the  office  of  the  Waist  Workers'  Union 
for  the  last  time.  Mr.  Raboff  and  the  other  officials  were 
absent  and  the  girls,  including  the  office  manager,  Miss 
Wald,  gathered  about  her  and  talked  with  restrained  ex 
citement. 

They  looked  upon  Hilda  with  the  same  enigmatic  ques 
tioning  with  which  they  had  met  her  five  months  earlier 
when  she  first  came  to  work  among  them.  Then  Hilda 
had  come  out  of  the  factory  into  a  sixty  dollar  a  month 
office  job.  Now  she  was  leaving  this  job  for  one  that 
would  pay  her  one  hundred  dollars  a  month.  With  the 
increased  salary  would  come  a  corresponding  prestige.  She 
was  making  a  place  for  herself  in  the  labor  movement. 

For  a  while  Hilda  shared  their  excitement.  The  feeling 
of  power  was  pleasant,  and  she  had  acquired  power — power 
over  herself.  She  had  mastered  the  office  routine  to  the 
last  detail  in  those  five  months.  Though  her  work  did  not 
call  for  it,  she  had  cultivated  the  typewriter  and  in  her 
spare  hours  she  was  studying  stenography,  which  had  been 
the  goal  of  her  girlhood  dreams.  .  .  .  She  could  go  out 
and  get  an  office  job  anywhere  now. 

But  the  feeling  of  excitement  soon  subsided  and  in  its 
place  came  a  melancholy  brooding  over  the  turn  her  life 
had  taken.  ...  It  was  Raymond  who  had  converted  her 


208  THE    ROAD 

vague  dreaming  about  office  work  into  an  ardent  wish. 
Work  in  an  office  instead  of  in  a  factory,  he  had  once  told 
her,  would  make  a  great  difference  in  her  life,  in  her  social 
status.  .  .  .  She  had  then  believed  in  social  status — had 
looked  up  to  wealth  and  to  power.  .  .  .  Then  the  job  which 
was  now  hers,  an  office  job,  would  have  evoked  dreams  of 
an  ambitious  marriage,  of  luxury,  ease,  of  afternoon  teas, 
bazaars,  philanthropic  entertainments.  .  .  . 

All  these  things  meant  nothing  to  her  now.  She  was  in 
fact  the  sworn  enemy  of  these  things,  of  the  people  who 
indulged  in  them.  .  .  .  She  was  the  enemy  of  the  civilization 
which  fostered  these  social  castes  and  parasites.  She  and 
that  civilization  were  definitely  at  war,  were  arrayed  on 
opposite  sides  of  the  barricades.  .  .  . 

Her  new  job,  she  felt,  would  rest  heavy  on  her  shoulders. 
She  would  pay  dearly  for  the  extra  comforts  she  would  de 
rive  from  it.  She  would  never  quite  free  herself  from  the 
feeling  of  apology,  of  guilt  to  those  whom  she  had  left 
below — to  the  hundreds  of  girls  who  had  died  in  the  factory 
fire,  to  the  thousands  upon  thousands  of  others  who  were 
exposing  themselves  daily  to  similar  deaths  and  dangers. 
.  .  .  She  was  no  better  than  they.  She  had  no  more  rights 
than  they,  was  deserving  of  no  greater  privileges.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   XVI 
THE  UNCHARTED  ROAD 

LITTLE  Raymond,  dressed  in  a  blue  velvet  suit,  his  face 
washed  and  his  hair  combed,  stepped  into  the  dining  room 
and  looked  furtively  about.  The  table,  with  the  electric 
chandelier  hanging  over  it,  the  walls  covered  in  part  with 
green  cloth,  in  part  hung  with  pictures,  the  steam  radiators, 
hissing  and  puffing,  all  interested  and  puzzled  his  childish 
imagination.  They  were  all  so  new. 

The  woman,  who  a  short  time  earlier  had  washed  and 
dressed  him,  was  flitting  back  and  forth  between  the  dining 
room  and  the  kitchen;  she  was  setting  the  table.  Every 
time  she  passed  she  smiled  at  him  or  tapped  him  on  the 
head  playfully.  Little  Raymond  liked  the  woman,  but 
she  was  not  his  mother  and  he  was  wondering  how  soon 
his  mother  would  come. 

Presently  there  was  a  ring  and  he  ran  into  the  hall. 
Two  women  came  in;  his  mother  was  not  among  them. 
One  of  the  women  said  "Hello"  to  him  indifferently,  as  if 
he  were  a  grown  person.  The  other  lifted  him  up  to  her 
face,  gazed  at  him  pleasantly  and  kissed  his  cheek.  He 
was  looking  at  her  heavy,  black-rimmed  spectacles.  ...  Be 
hind  the  glasses  the  woman  had  eyes  just  like  every  one 
else,  and  he  was  wondering  why  she  covered  them  with 
such  strange  things.  .  .  .  The  woman  was  talking  to  him 

209 


210  THE   ROAD 

in  baby  language  which  he  had  already  outgrown  and  he 
was  not  listening  to  her. 

There  was  another  ring.  Little  Raymond  gave  a  leap, 
and  had  not  the  woman  tightened  her  arms  about  him, 
he  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor.  She  went  into  the  hall 
with  him.  It  was  his  mother.  The  young  woman  surren 
dered  him  to  Hilda  and  he  clamped  his  arms  about  his 
mother's  neck,  as  if  he  had  just  saved  himself  from  great 
danger. 

There  were  more  rings  at  the  door.  More  women  came, 
but  Raymond  paid  no  attention  to  them  now.  He  had  his 
mother;  that  was  all  he  needed. 

The  young  women  went  each  to  her  room  and  he  and 
his  mother  went  into  their  room.  His  mother  changed 
her  clothes  and  was  fixing  her  hair  before  the  mirror.  He 
wondered  why  she  was  doing  this  and  who  the  woman 
was  who  had  dressed  him  and  was  now  cooking  their  sup 
per  in  the  kitchen.  .  .  . 

He  met  the  young  women,  including  the  one  with  the 
spectacles,  who  had  held  him  in  her  arms,  at  the  table. 
Between  this  young  woman  and  his  mother  a  place  had 
been  made  for  him  and  he  was  sitting  in  a  nice,  new  high 
chair.  The  woman  who  had  dressed  and  washed  him  and 
who  had  been  cooking  their  dinner,  now  served  the  meal. 
He  was  served;  his  mother,  too,  was  served.  ...  He  meant 
to  ask  her  about  this.  ...  But  there  were  many  things 
to  ask  about  and  the  questions  were  crowding  on  each 
other.  .  .  .  Besides  there  were  so  many  strange  people  at 
the  table,  and  he  was  shy.  .  .  . 

It  was  just  as  well  little  Raymond  did  not  embarrass 


THE   UNCHARTED   ROAD         211 

his  mother  with  questions.  Hilda  was  busy  with  her  own 
thoughts.  The  change  in  her  surroundings  was  as  strange 
and  puzzling  to  her  as  it  was  to  the  child,  though  from 
a  different  angle. 

Like  everything  else  in  her  life,  both  good  and  bad,  it 
came  with  unlooked-for  suddenness.  She  was  asked  one 
day  at  the  office  for  her  telephone  number.  She  had  none 
and  was  advised  to  change  her  residence.  It  was  impor 
tant  that  one  should  be  able  to  reach  her  over  the  'phone. 
Several  other  young  women,  it  turned  out,  had  no  tele 
phones.  One  of  these  was  Mollie  Evans,  a  Denver  girl, 
who  was  always  brimming  over  with  exuberance  and  plans. 
Miss  Evans  came  out  with  an  idea:  a  cooperative  apart 
ment. 

A  chum  of  Miss  Evans,  Norma  Heath,  although  she  was 
not  with  the  Shop  Safety  Committee,  and  had  a  telephone, 
joined  in  the  project.  There  were  four  of  them.  They 
needed  five,  and  Mollie  Evans  determined  upon  Hilda  as 
the  fifth. 

Hilda  recoiled  from  the  suggestion.  She  had  become 
accustomed  to  the  privacy  of  her  two  rooms — felt  safe 
in  them.  The  prospect  of  being  thrown  together  with  other 
people  frightened  her;  especially  such  people  as  Mollie 
Evans  and  her  friends.  They  came  from  wealthy  homes 
and  had  all  been  to  college.  The  places  they  lived  in 
on  Washington  Square  they  called  studios.  .  .  .  They  car 
ried  books  with  them  most  of  the  time,  a  volume  of  Shaw, 
Dunsany,  Galsworthy.  None  of  them  lived  on  their  earn 
ings;  they  were  getting  allowances  from  home. 

She  made  excuses.    She  would  probably  not  be  a  desir- 


212  THE   ROAD 

able  tenant.  She  had  a  child,  and  a  child  gave  a  good  deal 
of  trouble  in  a  house. 

Mollie  Evans  dismissed  most  of  Hilda's  objections  as 
irrelevant.  As  for  the  child,  far  from  being  a  drawback, 
he  was  an  asset  in  Miss  Evans'  eyes.  She  beamed  with 
enthusiasm  at  the  thought  of  having  a  child  in  their  midst. 
It  was  just  what  they  needed  to  make  the  place  a  real 
home.  .  .  .  And  they  needed  Mrs.  Thorsen.  .  .  .  They 
needed  her  practical  knowledge  of  the  working  people.  .  .  . 
All  they  knew  of  the  labor  movement  was  what  they  had 
got  from  books,  what  the  professor  had  told  them  in  col 
lege.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Thorsen,  on  the  other  hand,  was  directly 
connected  with  the  masses.  ...  It  would  be  selfish  of  her 
not  to  share  her  experience  with  them.  .  .  . 

There  seemed  to  be  no  way  out.  Besides,  finding  a  proper 
place  for  herself  and  the  child  was  no  easy  matter  for  Hilda. 
And  Miss  Evans  and  the  girls  were  really  considerate. 
There  were  several  day  nurseries  for  the  children  of  "pro 
fessional"  working  women  in  the  Washington  Square  district. 
They  would  look  for  a  flat  in  the  proximity  of  one  of  these 
nurseries.  Hilda  agreed,  and  within  a  month  the  cooperative 
home  came  into  being. 

It  was  a  six-room  flat  just  off  Washington  Square  and  was 
but  eight  or  ten  minutes'  walk  from  their  place  of  work. 
Miss  Evans  sponsored  the  idea  of  taking  in  a  woman  to 
keep  house  for  them.  Their  lunches  and  dinners  at  home 
would  more  than  pay  the  cost  of  maintaining  a  house 
keeper.  Miss  Heath  was  an  enthusiastic  second,  and  a 
housekeeper  was  hired. 

This  was  the  first  Saturday  evening  in  the  new  menage, 


THE    UNCHARTED   ROAD          213 

their  first  "state  dinner/'  as  Miss  Evans  called  it.  It  was 
to  be  followed  by  a  party  later  in  the  evening,  to  which 
the  girls  had  invited  some  of  their  friends.  The  girls 
praised  the  cooking,  and  altogether  they  agreed  that  the 
dinner  made  them  feel  very  much  like  home. 

To  Hilda,  however,  the  taste  of  the  dinner  was  lost  in 
troubled  reflections.  It  was  hard  for  her  to  harmonize  her 
old  self  with  her  new  surroundings,  to  reconcile  her  socialist 
principles  with  the  distinctly  bourgeois  flavor  of  the  place. 
She  was  being  served,  she  who  believed  in  no  servants.  .  .  . 
Whither  was  it  leading?  Where  would  it  end? 

"You  look  tired,  Mrs.  Thorsen;  you  must've  had  a  hard 
day,"  Miss  Heath  spoke  up. 

It  was  Miss  Heath  who  wore  the  black-rimmed  glasses 
that  had  so  greatly  interested  and  perplexed  little  Ray 
mond. 

Hilda  gave  an  affirmative  nod.  She  was  glad  Miss  Heath's 
question  carried  its  own  answer.  She  wasn't  in  the  mood 
to  talk  just  then. 

But  Martha  Wagner,  another  of  the  girls  who  shared  in 
the  cooperative  experiment,  was.  Miss  Wagner  hailed  from 
Cincinnati.  She  boasted  of  revolutionary  traditions,  her 
grandfather  having  participated  in  the  German  revolution 
of  1848. 

Miss  Wagner  plunged  into  a  vivid  description  of  her  day's 
experiences.  She  had  visited  sixteen  factories  in  all.  In 
more  than  half  of  them  the  aisles  to  the  fire  escapes  were 
blocked.  She  had  had  a  time  of  it  with  some  of  the  manu 
facturers  before  she  convinced  them  that  all  exits  must  be 
cleared  and  must  stay  clear  and  accessible  at  all  times. 


214  THE   ROAD 

"I  never  knew  I  had  feet  until  to-day,"  Miss  Wagner 
concluded.  "To-day  my  feet  seemed  to  be  ninety-nine  per 
cent  of  me." 

Harriet  Adams,  the  last  girl  in  the  group,  followed  with 
an  account  of  her  experiences. 

Miss  Adams  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  leather  manu 
facturer  in  St.  Louis.  Upon  graduating  from  college  three 
years  earlier  she  had  come  to  New  York  with  the  intention 
of  embarking  upon  a  literary  and  artistic  career.  She  had 
practised  verse  writing  in  college  and  knew  something  about 
illustrating.  Her  illustrating  she  discarded  early;  she  could 
do  nothing  with  it.  To  versification  Miss  Adams  clung  and 
had  some  half  dozen  of  her  poems  printed.  In  the  mean 
time  she  had  become  interested  in  socialism,  the  labor 
movement,  and  woman  suffrage.  She  took  the  job  of  fac 
tory  inspector  for  the  experience  that  was  in  it,  the  things 
it  might  lead  up  to,  as  she  put  it. 

Her  story  was  cut  short  by  a  ring  at  the  door.  A  young 
man  in  a  sweater  and  without  a  hat  entered.  He  was  an 
architect  living  on  the  floor  below.  Villard  Spence  was 
his  name. 

Several  other  young  men  and  one  young  woman  came 
within  the  next  half  hour.  The  woman  was  Florence  Mead, 
a  California  girl.  She  was  short  and  stocky,  with  blue  eyes 
and  large  lashes  that  were  always  drooping,  as  if  she  were 
forever  listening  to  some  one  declaring  himself  in  love 
to  her. 

Of  the  men,  Stephen  Young  was  an  artist.  Cliff  Gordon 
was  the  editor  of  a  labor  news  syndicate,  and  Herbert  Kar- 
sten,  a  man  of  thirty,  with  an  intelligent  but  none  too  ener- 


THE    UNCHARTED   ROAD         215 

getic  face,  was  the  secretary  of  an  organization  whose  object 
it  was  to  promote  manual  training  among  colored  children. 

It  was  time  for  little  Raymond  to  be  sleeping  and  Hilda 
excused  herself  and  left  the  room.  When  she  came  back 
the  entire  company  was  cozily  ensconced  in  chairs,  sofas, 
settees.  Miss  Heath  was  serving  Russian  tea,  in  glasses, 
and  with  lemon.  Miss  Adams  and  Mr.  Karsten  made  room 
for  Hilda  on  a  couch  beside  them. 

The  conversation  was  animated.  They  talked  of  Ber 
nard  Shaw,  Sidney  Webb,  and  Havelock  Ellis;  socialism, 
individualism,  free  love;  the  right  to  one's  convictions,  to 
do  as  one  pleased,  to  live  as  one  saw  fit. 

Miss  Adams  slipped  her  hand  through  Hilda's  arm,  leaned 
against  her  shoulder,  and  sat  listening.  Hilda  too  listened. 
.  .  .  She  was  thinking  of  Hillstrom.  What  would  he  say 
to  her  new  associations?  What  would  he  have  thought 
about  the  conversation?  He  had  visited  her  a  number 
of  times  that  summer  and  never  once  had  the  question  of 
free  love  come  up  in  their  talks.  .  .  . 

She  was  drawing  a  comparison  between  Hillstrom  and 
these  men.  She  had  never  seen  Hillstrom  striving  for  effect. 
He  did  not  talk  to  make  an  impression.  There  was  a  com 
plete  absence  of  pose  in  him.  Ada,  too,  had  been  entirely 
free  from  that  trait.  .  .  . 

She  became  absorbed  in  memories  and  recollections  of 
her  friends,  the  dead  Ada,  the  restless,  roaming  Hillstrom. 
She  was  wondering  how  soon  he  would  show  up  in  New 
York  again.  She  was  craving  for  a  talk  with  him.  Such 
a  talk  would  clear  things  for  her,  would  bring  definiteness 
into  her  thoughts.  .  .  . 


216  THE    ROAD 

The  conversation  finally  settled  upon  Russia,  Russian 
men,  Russian  women — the  frank,  open  way  they  had  of 
meeting,  discussing  questionings  of  love,  of  sex.  It  drifted 
to  Russian  literature. 

Villard  Spence,  the  architect,  was  talking  about  Turgenev, 
his  heroes,  his  characters,  and  Hilda  pricked  up  her  ears. 
She  had  read  every  one  of  the  half-dozen  volumes  of 
Turgenev  which  her  friend,  Ada  Breen,  had  had.  She  had 
read  an  essay  on  the  writer,  on  Russian  life  in  general,  with 
which  one  of  the  volumes  was  prefaced. 

"What  troubles  me  about  Turgenev,  about  his  charac 
ters,"  Spence  was  saying,  "is  that  they  are  not  men  of 
action.  They  get  nowhere.  They  are  noble,  they  are  fine, 
when  they  dream,  but  they  are  helpless  and  miserable  when 
they  attempt  to  convert  their  dreams  into  reality.  They 
plan  to  free  their  country  from  despotism  and  autocracy  and 
end  by  going  to  seed  themselves,  while  the  despotism  goes 
flourishing  on.  They  plan  revolution  and  end  with  suicide. 
The  best  Rudin  can  do  is  to  throw  away  his  life  aimlessly 
on  a  barricade  in  Paris.  The  Nihilist,  Bazarov,  at  the 
threshold  of  what  should  have  been  a  vigorous,  active  life 
in  behalf  of  the  oppressed  Russian  people,  indifferently, 
almost  willingly  walks  into  death.  .  .  ." 

"And  you  hold  it  against  them  that  they  dream,  but  get 
nowhere?"  Hilda  asked. 

"Yes,"  the  architect  replied. 

"What  you  demand  then  is  that  men  live  up  to  their 
dreams,  that  they  put  their  ideals  into  practice?" 

"Why — yes."  Spence  was  gazing  at  Hilda  uneasily  as  one 
does  upon  an  unknown  adversary.  Hilda  persisted: 


THE   UNCHARTED   ROAD         217 

"But  suppose  action  is  not  possible?  Suppose  the  time 
is  not  propitious,  not  yet  ripe  for  action?" 

"I  don't  know  as  I  follow  you/'  Spence  said  vaguely. 

"Very  well,  let  us  take  the  two  characters  of  Turgenev 
you  have  mentioned,  Rudin  and  Bazarov,"  Hilda  continued. 
"Who  were  they?  They  were  two  young  idealists  whose  eyes 
have  been  opened  to  certain  wrongs  and  injustices  in  Rus 
sia,  in  their  country's  life  and  institutions.  They  would 
like  to  see  things  different,  to  change  things.  But  there  are 
few  of  them.  Russia  is  a  country  of  one  hundred  and 
sixty  millions,  and  these  millions  are  ignorant,  inert,  blind. 
.  .  .  What  can  these  few  idealists  do  except  talk,  agitate, 
arouse  an  individual  here  and  there  to  think  as  they 
do? 

"And  why  talk  of  Russia,  why  not  talk  about  our  own 
country?"  Hilda's  voice  rose.  "We  have  in  this  country 
a  capitalist  oligarchy  that  oppresses  the  American  workman 
the  same  as  Russia's  political  autocracy  oppresses  the  Rus 
sian  peasant.  And  we  have  men  in  America,  idealists,  who 
see  this  industrial  autocracy,  who  would  like  to  overthrow 
it.  But  these  men  are  as  few  in  America  as  the  Rudins 
and  Bazarovs  in  their  day  were  in  Russia.  The  mass  of 
the  workingmen  in  America  are  as  blind  to  the  cause  of 
their  oppression  as  the  mass  of  Russian  peasantry  was  blind 
to  the  cause  of  its  oppression.  About  all  our  idealists  can 
do  for  the  present  is  to  talk  and  agitate.  Should  they  be 
condemned  because  they  merely  dream  of  a  better  day  for 
the  working  class  of  America  without  being  able  to  usher 
in  that  day?  I  don't  think  so.  I  respect  any  one  who  has 
the  courage  to  dream  of  a  better  world.  The  men  of  action 


2i8  THE  ROAD 

of  to-morrow  will  derive  their  strength  from  the  men  of 
dreams  of  to-day." 

"You  dear,  you  talk  wonderfully."  Miss  Adams  threw 
her  arms  about  Hilda  when  she  had  finished.  All  the  girls 
crowded  about  her.  Miss  Evans  was  "immensely  proud"  of 
her.  Miss  Heath  wanted  to  know  if  she  knew  personally 
many  such  American  idealists;  it  would  be  nice  to  invite 
them  to  the  house  some  time.  Mr.  Karsten,  the  man  who 
was  interested  in  the  spreading  of  manual  training  among 
negroes,  did  not  take  his  eyes  off  Hilda  the  rest  of  the 
evening. 

When  she  was  in  her  room  alone  Hilda  thought  of  what 
a  queer  turn  her  life  had  taken.  What  was  she  doing 
among  these  young  women,  and  what  were  they,  these  girls 
from  the  colleges,  doing  in  New  York?  What  was  it  missing 
in  their  lives  that  they  were  seeking  to  find  in  the  labor 
movement?  What  could  the  labor  movement  do  for  them? 
What  could  they  do  for  it? 

In  spite  of  their  professions  of  seriousness,  Hilda  was 
finding  it  impossible  to  take  these  girls  seriously.  There 
was  a  lack  of  conviction  in  all  they  said.  It  was  not 
insincerity.  The  girls  were  quite  sincere.  It  was  the  fact 
that  their  grievances  were  not  their  own.  They  were  decry 
ing  wrongs  which  they  had  not  themselves  suffered.  They 
were  denouncing  oppressions  which  they  had  not  experienced. 
They  were  not  working  women.  Their  revolt  came  from 
the  brain,  not  from  the  heart.  .  .  . 

Yes,  what  was  she  doing  among  them? 

The  more  she  viewed  her  life,  the  events  of  the  past 


THE   UNCHARTED  ROAD         219 

months,  weeks,  the  more  she  felt  that  she  was  going  along 
an  uncharted  road.  .  .  . 

She  was  thinking  over  the  incidents  of  the  evening.  Why 
had  she  spoken  as  she  did?  Was  it  because  Villard  Spence 
had  reminded  her  so  much  of  Raymond  Evert?  They  did 
not  look  alike,  but  they  had  so  many  things  in  common. 
In  the  first  place,  the  two  were  of  the  same  age.  Then 
there  was  the  same  brilliance  of  expression  and  the  evident 
lack  of  strength  behind  it.  That,  too,  they  seemed  to  have 
in  common. 

Was  it  with  Raymond  rather  than  with  the  architect 
who  she  scarcely  knew  that  she  had  semi-consciously  taken 
issue  that  evening?  Was  it  to  Raymond  that  she  was 
trying  to  show  that  she  had  read  and  understood;  that 
she  could  explain  herself,  could  defend  her  views?  .  .  .  Was 
it?  ... 

Raymond.  .  .  . 

The  girls  began  taking  their  troubles  to  Hilda.  At  first 
they  came  for  advice.  Though  she  was  of  an  age  with  most 
of  them,  they  looked  upon  her  as  older.  She  was  more 
experienced.  She  had  been  married,  had  had  a  child.  .  .  \ 
Later  they  began  coming  to  her  for  comfort.  She  had  a 
way  of  lightening  one's  burdens  with  a  word,  with  a  look, 
they  found. 

They  were  telling  her  about  their  families,  the  beautiful 
homes  they  had  left  to  come  to  New  York,  the  chances  for 
a  life  of  comfort  they  were  fleeing  from  in  order  to  at 
tain  a  vague  and  illusive  something  which  they  themselves 


220  THE   ROAD 

were  unable  to  define  clearly,  to  picture.  .  .  .  Sometimes 
they  called  this  vague  something  they  were  striving  after  in 
dependence.  Sometimes  they  called  it  feminism.  Sometimes 
they  called  it  freedom, — freedom  from  restraint,  freedom 
from  conventions,  freedom  from  the  idleness  and  uselessness 
to  which  women  of  their  class  were  condemned.  .  .  . 

Hilda  grew  sympathetic  toward  them.  .  .  .  They  too  were 
traveling  along  uncharted  roads.  .  .  .  Only  their  goals  were 
different.  ...  It  was  freedom  for  herself,  personal  freedom 
in  some  degree,  in  varying  degrees,  each  of  these  young 
women  was  seeking.  It  was  freedom  for  all,  a  free  world, 
Hilda  was  dreaming  of.  ... 

The  girls  spoke  to  Hilda  of  being  hard  and  uncompromis 
ing,  of  fighting  to  a  finish.  She  listened  to  them  as  a  mother 
listens  to  a  tired,  sleepy  child  babbling  things  which  he  will 
forget  in  the  morning.  .  .  . 

The  problems  of  some  of  the  girls  were  real.  Others  were 
magnifying  into  problems  trifles  such  as  she,  Hilda,  would 
have  settled  with  a  thought.  Mature  women,  worldly  wise 
in  many  ways,  they  were  like  children,  helpless  in  some  of 
life's  simplest  situations. 

As  for  the  revolutionary  propensities  of  these  girls,  Hilda 
had  learned  to  discount  them  completely.  A  cup  of  hot 
chocolate  when  they  were  tired,  she  noticed,  and  their  mood 
of  revolt,  of  abandon,  would  melt  away.  .  .  . 

Miss  Heath  was  voted  by  the  girls  as  the  cleverest  and 
most  businesslike  among  them.  Norma  had  been  in  New 
York  longer  than  any  of  them,  nearly  three  years,  and  had 
an  insight  into  many  of  the  city's  and  the  country's  prob 
lems.  Also  she  had  decided  opinions  on  things.  She  had 


THE    UNCHARTED    ROAD          221 

the  reputation  of  one  not  afraid  to  look  facts  in  the  face. 

"I  don't  know  where  I'm  going,  but  I'm  on  my  way,"  she 
once  said  to  Hilda,  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

It  was  late  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  and  the  two  were  alone 
in  the  house.  A  snowstorm  was  howling  outside.  Little 
Raymond,  after  playing  for  a  long  time  by  himself,  had 
fallen  asleep.  Norma  had  just  finished  telling  Hilda  about 
her  home  in  Denver.  She  had  shown  her  a  letter  from 
a  man  there,  a  banker,  who  had  been  after  her  for  three 
years  to  marry  him,  but  whom  she  had  repeatedly  turned 
down.  The  world  was  so  full  of  stirring  ideas,  of  big,  beau 
tiful  aims,  that  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  surrender 
herself  to  the  sort  of  an  existence  which  her  position  as  the 
wife  of  a  banker  in  a  priggish,  self-satisfied  social  circle 
would  call  for. 

The  man,  she  confided,  was  twelve  years  older  than  her 
self. 

"I  don't  know  as  any  of  us  know  exactly  where  we're 
going,"  Hilda  reflected.  "It's  the  age  we're  living  in,  the 
times  that  make  us  so." 

"You  are  such  a  restful  person,"  Norma  said,  rubbing 
her  cheek  against  Hilda's  arm.  "You're  so  composed  and 
self-reliant.  And  yet — you  don't  mind  my  saying  it — you're 
not  materially  as  well  off  as  any  of  us.  You  have  no  wealthy 
parents,  no  family  to  fall  back  on.  I  wonder  if  it's  the 
baby  that  gives  you  so  much  poise,  so  much  strength?" 

"I'm  not  as  contented  as  I  may  appear."  Hilda's  voice 
was  melancholy.  "But  I  am  composed,  I  presume.  I  have 
learned  self-control.  Life  has  knocked  it  into  me.  Life.  .  .  . 
It  has  been  hard  at  times.  ,  . 


222  THE   ROAD 

"Of  course,"  she  added,  after  a  silence,  "a  child  does  make 
a  big  change  in  one,  a  big  change.  .  .  ." 

"It  must  be  wonderful  to  have  a  child,"  Miss  Heath  re 
flected  dreamily.  "If  only  the  father,  the  husband,  did  not 
go  with  it.  ... 

"I  love  children,  but  I  hate  the  race  of  husbands,"  she 
added  bitterly. 

Miss  Heath  had  turned  her  eyes  away  and  Hilda  could 
not  see  her  gaze.  But  her  face  was  twitching,  and  Hilda 
wondered  what  tragedy  in  her  own  life  Norma  was  think 
ing  of. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  all  appears  to  you,"  Norma 
resumed  after  a  little,  and  her  voice  rang  old  and  disillu 
sioned,  "but  to  me  this  life  of  ours,  which  most  of  us  pre 
tend  is  independence,  emancipation — I  mean  this  cutting 
one's  hair,  this  smoking,  wearing  men's  shoes,  and  here  and 
there  even  adopting  men's  standard  of  morality,  or  rather, 
immorality — to  me  all  this  is  a  pitiful  illusion.  It  is  not 
freedom,  it  is  not  emancipation.  It  is  not  even  an  approach 
to  it.  It  is  only  the  prisoner  beating  against  his  prison 
door. 

"It  isn't  defying  prejudices  and  breaking  conventions  by 
a  hundred  women,  or  a  thousand,  or  ten  thousand,  that  will 
set  woman  free,"  she  continued.  "The  independence  of 
woman  will  not  be  achieved  short  of  revolution — a  revolu 
tion  in  the  relations  between  men  and  women.  Woman  will 
not  be  free  until  she  has  achieved  the  right  to  motherhood, 
until  her  right  to  have  a  child,  whether  conforming  to  con 
vention  or  not,  whether  in  wedlock  or  out  of  wedlock,  is  as 
unquestioned  as  her  right  to  live.  If  this  should  sound  the 


THE   UNCHARTED   ROAD         223 

death  knell  of  the  present  marriage  institution,  let  it.  If 
the  institution  of  marriage  is  incompatible  with  the  freedom 
of  woman,  let  it  go  down  before  it." 

Hilda  did  not  answer.  The  marriage  institution  was  the 
one  thing  she  could  never  bring  herself  to  speak  about. 
Whenever  marriage,  the  family,  came  under  discussion — and 
it  came  often — she  maintained  a  shy,  depressive  silence. 

Miss  Heath  took  her  hand.  It  was  trembling.  Hilda 
was  wondering  whether  the  young  woman  beside  her  might 
guess  the  reason  for  her  silence,  for  her  trembling.  .  .  . 

Several  months  later  on  an  evening  in  June,  Norma  came 
home  in  the  company  of  a  correctly  dressed,  correct  looking, 
tall,  thinnish  man.  He  was  forty  years  old.  His  nonde 
script  hair  was  thin  on  the  top  of  his  head  and  gray  at  the 
temples.  It  was  the  banker  from  Denver.  Norma  intro 
duced  him  as  her  fiance. 

In  the  presence  of  this  man  the  girls  dropped  their  slouchy 
and  somewhat  challenging  conduct,  like  children  in  the 
presence  of  their  school  principal,  or  the  Sunday-school  su 
perintendent.  They  sat  straight  in  their  chairs,  forgot  their 
cigarettes.  Harriet  Adams  seemed  conscious  of  her  bobbed 
hair,  at  which  the  man  was  gazing  with  an  air  that  seemed 
to  say:  "I  reserve  decision  on  this  point;  I  have  not  had 
time  to  make  up  my  mind  yet." 

Miss  Heath  talked  with  assumed  gaiety  and  the  girls 
readily  and  quite  deftly  fell  into  that  mood.  To  Hilda 
it  seemed  as  if  every  one  of  them  had  suddenly  put  on 
a  mask. 

Sharply  at  ten  o'clock  the  man  took  his  leave  to  go  to 


224  THE    ROAD 

the  hotel.  Nor  ma  went  down  the  stairs  with  him  to  the 
sidewalk.  She  came  up  again  after  a  few  minutes,  went 
into  Hilda's  room,  and  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  bed. 
Both  were  silent  for  some  minutes. 

Suddenly  Norma  sought  Hilda's  hand,  took  it  in  her 
own,  patted  it,  and  began  speaking  in  detached,  broken 
phrases: 

"You  are  not — angry  with  me  ...  after  what  I've  said 
about  marriage  .  .  .  about  freedom  ...  to  be  crawling 
under  the  old  family  blanket  of  respectability.  ...  I  have 
not  changed  my  views  ...  I  still  believe  in  those  ideas. 
...  I  do.  ...  But — I  can't  fight  for  them.  ...  I  was 
not  brought  up  for  sustained  work.  .  .  .  For  drudgery.  .  .  . 
I  must  have  warmth.  .  .  .  Comfort.  .  .  ." 

Hilda  sat  unmoved.  Her  features  were  tense.  Norma 
threw  her  arms  about  her  companion's  neck. 

"Why  am  I  not  as  strong  as  you,  Hilda?"  she  wept. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
FEARS  AND  HOPES 

THE  attendant  at  the  desk,  a  nurse  in  the  forties,  ran 
through  a  list  of  names. 

"Raymond  Thorsen?"  she  said.  "Yes,  you  can  see  him 
to-day.  Will  you  wait,  please?" 

Hilda  took  a  seat.  It  was  easy  to  be  patient  now.  The 
child  was  able  to  leave  his  bed.  He  was  out  of  danger. 
She  was  speculating  as  to  how  he  looked.  The  four  and 
a  half  weeks  at  the  hospital  must  have  thinned  him  con 
siderably.  Would  the  scarlet  rashes  still  show?  How  near 
would  she  be  allowed  to  get  to  him?  They  were  so  strict 
with  the  isolation  cases. 

A  nurse  took  her  around  to  the  rear  of  the  building.  In 
the  windows  on  the  first  and  second  floor  children  were 
standing.  In  the  yard  below  their  mothers  were  looking 
up  to  them,  motioning,  talking.  The  nurse  pointed  to  two 
windows  on  the  first  floor. 

In  a  few  minutes  little  Raymond  appeared  in  one  of 
them.  The  bathrobe  and  slippers  he  wore  were  too  large 
for  him.  He  put  his  hands  against  the  glass  window, 
as  if  to  prop  himself,  and  stood  peering  into  the  yard.  He 
apparently  did  not  recognize  his  mother  at  once. 

Hilda  saw  him  as  if  through  a  mist.  Raymond's  light, 

225 


226  THE   ROAD 

wavy  hair  had  been  cut  off,  and  this,  together  with  the 
effects  of  his  sickness,  seemed  to  have  reduced  his  face  to 
half  its  former  proportions.  His  ears  stood  out  sharp  and 
big;  his  neck  had  become  thin  and  sallow. 

She  was  talking  to  him,  asking  him  how  he  felt,  but 
her  voice  did  not  carry.  The  child  looked  puzzled.  He 
began  to  mumble  something,  his  face  quivered,  and  he  burst 
into  tears. 

She  had  brought  some  toys  with  her,  a  rubber  balloon 
and  other  things,  and  she  showed  them  to  him,  motioning 
that  she  would  have  them  brought  to  him  soon.  The  child 
brightened  up  and  smiled.  .  .  . 

She  had  intended  to  stay  at  least  half  an  hour  in  front 
of  the  window  and  look  at  him — look,  look.  .  .  .  She  was 
seeing  him  for  the  first  time  since  his  illness.  .  .  .  But  little 
Raymond  was  holding  himself  on  his  thin,  weak  legs  with 
difficulty,  and  taking  a  last  long  look  at  her  son,  Hilda 
threw  a  kiss  at  him  and  ran  before  the  child  fully  realized 
that  she  was  going  away.  .  .  . 

In  the  office  she  was  told  that  her  boy  would  not  be 
released  for  two  and  a  half  or  three  weeks  yet.  They  took 
no  chances  with  scarlet  fever  cases.  The  nurse  who  took 
the  toys  from  her  for  the  child  advised  her  that  she  had 
better  calculate  on  three  weeks.  It  would  take  fully  that 
long  before  he  would  be  entirely  well. 

Even  three  weeks  Hilda  figured  would  bring  the  child 
home  almost  a  week  before  his  birthday — his  fifth  birth 
day.  .  .  . 

All  the  way  home  she  was  planning  little  Raymond's 
birthday  party,  the  surprises  she  would  make  him.  She 


FEARS   AND   HOPES  227 

was  glad  summer  was  ahead.  He  would  recuperate  quickly. 
She  would  see  that  he  did.  She  would  take  him  to  the 
park  every  evening,  and  along  the  Hudson.  She  would 
take  him  on  the  bus;  he  liked  bus  rides.  His  hair  would 
grow  out,  and  he  would  have  the  same  beautiful  head  again. 
Yes,  he  would.  .  .  .  Her  child.  .  .  .  Her  all.  ...  She 
cried  and  laughed  by  turns. 

Hilda  was  sharing  a  four-room  apartment  with  a  middle- 
aged  woman  who  worked  as  a  proofreader,  and  the  latter 's 
daughter,  a  schoolgirl  of  fifteen.  The  experiment  of  run 
ning  a  cooperative  apartment  with  Miss  Evans  and  the  other 
girls  had  come  to  an  end  nearly  two  years  earlier,  and  only 
a  short  time  after  Miss  Heath  had  left  for  Denver  to  be 
married. 

Many  things  had  happened  in  those  two  years,  much 
had  been  changed.  Hilda  was  still  with  the  Shop  Safety 
Committee,  but  instead  of  climbing  stairs  and  inspecting  fac 
tories  she  was  working  inside.  She  was  in  charge  of  the 
office  now. 

Of  the  other  young  women  with  whom  she  had  started 
work,  only  one  or  two  still  clung  to  their  jobs.  The  rest 
had  left  the  committee.  Miss  Evans  had  accepted  a  place 
with  the  woman  suffrage  party.  She  was  organizer  at  first 
and  now  had  become  one  of  the  big  leaders  of  the  move 
ment.  .  .  .  She  made  speeches  and  figured  in  the  news 
papers  frequently. 

Harriet  Adams  was  peeved  that  the  job  of  organizer 
had  been  offered  to  Miss  Evans  and  not  to  herself — they 
were  both  equally  active  for  suffrage — and  withdrew  entirely 


228  THE   ROAD 

from  politics,  as  she  put  it.  She  resigned  her  job  with  the 
Safety  Committee  and  turned  her  attention  once  more 
to  writing.  After  a  brief  trial  in  that  direction,  however, 
she  discovered  that  what  she  was  really  interested  in  was 
psychoanalysis,  and  turned  to  that.  Thereafter  Hilda  saw 
her  rarely. 

Florence  Mead,  their  California  friend,  had  entered  into 
a  free  love  union  with  an  illustrator  some  three  or  four 
years  younger  than  herself.  They  told  their  friends  that 
they  were  very  happy.  A  child  came,  but  died  three  days 
after  it  was  born.  Miss  Mead  did  not  cease  talking  about 
the  child.  Her  artist  husband  claimed  he  was  heartbroken 
over  the  death  of  the  little  one.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  at  the 
end  of  six  weeks,  when  Florence  was  quite  well  again,  she 
took  separate  living  quarters.  Shortly  after  that  she  parted 
from  her  artist  husband  entirely  and  went  back  to  Cali 
fornia. 

Hilda  had  during  that  time  been  offered  a  number  of 
positions.  Two  overtures  came  from  international  unions, 
big  labor  organizations,  who  wanted  her  to  be  organizer  for 
them.  She  turned  these  jobs  down.  They  would  take  her 
away  from  her  child  evenings.  Also  these  jobs  would 
require  her  to  make  speeches,  and  she  had  a  secret  dread 
of  stepping  upon  a  platform  and  standing  up  before  a 
crowd.  .  .  . 

With  the  breaking  up  of  the  cooperative  apartment  there 
was  an  end  to  the  talk-fests,  as  the  frequent  gatherings  in 
the  house  came  to  be  known.  But  Hilda  was  not  without 
friends.  Many  of  her  woman  acquaintances  were  in  the 
habit  of  looking  in  on  her  when  they  wanted  a  sensible 


FEARS   AND   HOPES  229 

talk,  as  they  put  it.  Several  of  the  men,  too,  came  up  from 
time  to  time. 

Her  new  work  required  all  the  attention  she  could  give 
it.  Between  tending  to  her  job  and  looking  after  the  child, 
Hilda's  physical  strength  was  taxed  to  the  utmost.  Never 
theless,  there  were  times  when  her  whole  being  ached  for 
some  one  near.  ...  At  such  times  the  thought  of  going 
on  like  this,  of  going  through  life  alone,  grieved  her.  .  .  . 
Love,  marriage,  however,  held  so  many  possibilities  for  new 
complications,  for  pain,  that  she  shunned  the  thought  of 
them.  .  .  . 

Hilda  felt  as  if  she  still  had  an  open  account  with  Ray 
mond  Evert.  She  would  have  to  let  the  man  who  loved 
her  know  about  her  past,  about  Raymond.  Also  she  felt 
that  if  she  married,  Raymond  should  know  of  it,  should 
know  of  their  child.  She  would  not  want  anything  hidden 
from  the  one,  or  from  the  other. 

One  offer  of  marriage  she  had  during  this  time.  It  came 
from  Herbert  Karsten,  the  secretary  of  the  society  for  the 
spreading  of  manual  training  among  colored  children.  Al 
though  Karsten  visited  Hilda  frequently  and  talked  with 
her  on  many  subjects,  he  never  talked  of  love,  and  his 
offer  of  marriage  was  made  in  a  letter.  Hilda  read  the  letter 
and  as  soon  as  she  got  to  the  office  she  called  Karsten  on 
the  telephone.  Could  he  come  up  to  see  her  that  evening? 
She  could  hear  his  voice  sink  as  she  was  speaking  to  him. 
...  It  was  not  thus  a  woman  would  speak  to  a  man  she 
loved. 

He  came.  She  received  him  very  cordially.  They  had 
been  friends  for  a  long  time,  she  said,  and  for  that  reason 


230  THE   ROAD 

she  had  asked  him  to  come.  She  did  not  feel  that  she  could 
put  in  writing  what  she  wished  to  say.  .  .  . 

She  appreciated  his  letter,  but  there  could  be  no  talk 
of  marrying  between  them.  ...  It  was  not  anything  con 
cerned  with  him  that  was  responsible  for  this.  ...  It  was 
her  own  life.  .  .  .  Her  own  previous  love,  her  suffering.  .  .  . 
She  could  not  enter  into  details.  But  this  love  and  suffer 
ing  of  the  past  had  not  cleared  away  yet.  ...  It  was  still 
on  her  horizon.  .  .  . 

Karsten  remained  a  long  time  with  her  that  evening. 
He  talked  much  about  his  work,  the  progress  manual  train 
ing  was  making  among  the  colored  people,  the  ripening  of 
a  new  consciousness  in  the  relations  between  the  races.  He 
talked  as  if  he  were  trying  to  forget  something.  Hilda  was 
sorry  for  him. 

She  had  received  several  visits  from  Hillstrom  during 
the  year  following  the  breaking  up  of  the  cooperative  apart 
ment.  .  .  .  Even  the  old  pop-corn  party  "which  had  been 
postponed  again  and  again  had  finally  come  off.  For  the 
past  year  she  and  Hillstrom  had  been  corresponding.  She 
wrote  to  him  whenever  she  was  in  doubt  and  wanted  to 
consult  with  some  one  of  like  mind  who  would  understand 
her.  Hillstrom  always  answered  her  letters  promptly.  He 
wrote  to  her  from  whatever  part  of  the  country  he  hap 
pened  to  be  in,  telling  her  about  the  labor  movement  there, 
about  the  socialist  situation. 

He  had  been  arrested  a  number  of  times  in  the  course  of 
these  two  years  in  connection  with  strikes,  and  was  under 
indictment  in  several  states.  But  he  was  not  taking  these 
things  seriously,  Hillstrom  wrote.  Arrest  and  indictment  of 


FEARS   AND   HOPES  231 

leaders,  he  said,  had  come  to  be  a  regular  feature  of  labor 
warfare  in  America.  After  the  strikes  were  settled  these 
indictments  were  usually  quashed,  as  they  had  no  ground 
in  law  in  the  beginning. 

A  pleasant  interest  came  suddenly  into  Hilda's  life. 
Willy  Breen,  her  friend  Ada's  little  Willy,  began  visiting 
her  frequently.  He  would  come  on  a  Saturday  night  and 
would  very  often  stay  until  the  following  evening.  Some 
times  he  brought  his  violin  with  him,  sometimes  his  school 
books.  .  .  . 

Willy  was  fourteen  years  old.  His  grandmother  had  died. 
He  was  living  with  an  aunt,  a  sister  of  his  mother's,  but 
was  earning  his  own  living.  He  worked  in  an  office  during 
the  day.  In  the  evening  he  went  to  night  high  school.  He 
confided  to  her  some  of  his  troubles.  He  had  had  to  drop 
his  music  after  his  mother's  death.  And  now,  though  he 
was  working,  he  was  still  unable  to  resume  it  because  the 
lessons  came  high.  The  advanced  teachers  demanded  such 
high  prices.  However,  he  hoped  to  come  back  to  his  violin 
as  soon  as  he  should  earn  a  little  more. 

They  would  often  sit  up  late  and  talk  of  old  times. 
There  was  much  Hilda  could  tell  Willy  about  his  mother, 
things  his  grandmother  never  knew,  never  understood.  .  .  . 
She  described  Ada  Breen's  fine  traits,  her  courage,  her 
idealism,  her  devotion  to  the  memory  of  her  husband.  The 
boy  never  grew  tired  of  listening  to  these  stories  of  his 
mother.  He  was  filled  with  pride  and  regretted  that  Hilda 
had  not  known  his  father  as  well.  She  would  no  doubt 
have  had  many  things  to  tell  of  him  too.  As  it  was,  he 


232  THE    ROAD 

knew  so  little  of  his  father.  His  mother's  people  even 
answered  his  questions  about  Leon  Breen  grudgingly. 

One  day  Willy  brought  a  thick  notebook  with  him.  For 
about  a  year,  he  confided  to  Hilda,  he  had  been  writing 
verses.  No  one  knew  of  it,  not  even  his  teachers.  He  was 
ashamed  to  tell  them.  Hilda  listened  to  him  earnestly 
and  told  him  not  to  be  ashamed  and  to  go  on  writing  his 
poems.  Many  great  poets  had  begun  to  write  at  just 
such  an  age  as  his.  With  the  parents  he  had  had  she  would 
not  be  at  all  surprised  if  he  grew  up  to  be  a  poet  or  a 
writer.  .  .  . 

Thereafter  the  boy  consulted  with  her  about  his  work 
and  plans  regularly.  Her  every  word  had  become  law  to 
him.  He  clung  to  her  with  tender  devotion.  He  and  little 
Raymond  had  come  to  be  as  brothers  to  one  another.  .  .  . 

She  had  met  a  number  of  Chicago  people.  The  fame  of 
the  Shop  Safety  Committee  was  spreading.  Several  articles 
had  appeared  about  it  in  the  magazines,  and  labor  and  social 
welfare  organizations  were  sending  representatives  to  New 
York  to  study  its  workings.  All  such  visitors  were  turned 
over  by  the  director  of  the  committee,  a  Dr.  Baum,  to  Hilda 
for  details  with  regard  to  the  management  of  the  work. 

One  of  the  Chicago  visitors  to  the  offices  of  the  committee 
was  a  lawyer.  He  was  the  attorney  for  a  big  union  and 
was  of  an  age  with  Raymond  Evert.  What  if  Raymond 
should  one  day  walk  into  her  office? 

The  thought  came  to  her  on  her  way  to  work  one  morn 
ing  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  faster.  The  more  she 
reflected  on  this  possibility,  the  more  plausible  it  seemed. 


FEARS   AND   HOPES  233 

She  conjured  up  Raymond's  probable  career.  He  had  no 
doubt  carried  out  his  father's  wish  and  had  become  a  law 
yer.  It  was  equally  plausible  that  he  should  be  interested 
in  the  labor  movement.  He  had  given  her  the  book  on 
"French  and  German  Socialism";  he  had  evidently  studied 
the  labor  movement  in  college.  So  many  of  the  men  she 
had  been  meeting,  men  who  were  figuring  in  the  intel 
lectual  activities  of  the  trade  union  movement,  had  begun 
their  interest  in  labor  problems  in  just  that  way.  .  .  . 

The  thought  that  Raymond  would  one  day  walk  in  on  her 
did  not  leave  her  for  weeks.  There  were  days  when  she 
would  give  an  involuntary  start  every  time  the  door  of  her 
office  opened. 

She  was  making  up  her  mind  as  to  how  she  would  act 
on  meeting  him.  Would  she  tell  him  about  the  child? 
Would  he  ask?  Well,  whether  he  would  ask  or  not,  she 
would  tell  him.  She  would  make  it  clear  to  him  that  the 
boy  was  hers,  hers  only.  .  .  .  She  was  both  mother  and 
father  to  him.  .  .  .  Raymond  probably  would  not  care. 
He  no  doubt  was  married  and  had  other  children  by  this 
time.  She  wondered  whether  his  other  children  were  nicer 
than  little  Raymond.  They  no  doubt  had  better  advan 
tages,  had  been  made  welcome,  had  not  suffered  so 
much.  .  .  . 

After  some  weeks  the  feeling  of  dread  at  the  thought 
of  meeting  Raymond  disappeared  completely.  In  its  place 
came  a  desire  to  meet  him.  Instead  of  fearing  that  he  might 
come,  she  now  began  to  hope  that  he  would  come.  She 
would  like  to  see  him,  arrive  at  a  definite  understanding 
with  him,  clear  things  once  for  all.  .  .  .  Chicago  would 


234  [THE   ROAD 

then  be  accessible  to  her  once  more.  She  could  go  there 
again.  .  .  . 

For  some  time  now  Hilda  had  had  a  craving  to  go  back 
to  Chicago.  She  was  weary  of  New  York,  as  weary  as  her 
friend  Ada  had  once  been.  Everybody  she  was  coming 
in  contact  with  appeared  to  be  weary  and  wanting  to  escape 
it.  ...  New  York,  it  seemed  to  her,  was  like  a  stage.  One 
could  stand  the  stage  for  so  long,  and  then  one  needed  a 
change,  one  needed  to  get  away  from  the  spotlight.  .  .  . 
She  had  been  on  this  stage  so  many  years.  .  .  . 

Besides,  Chicago  was  so  near  Stillwell.  .  .  .  She  longed 
to  be  in  Stillwell  once  more.  If  she  ever  got  back  to  Chi 
cago  she  would  go  to  Stillwell  for  a  visit.  .  .  .  She  would 
go  there  in  the  summer,  late,  when  the  corn  is  turning 
yellow.  .  .  . 

She  was  now  praying  for  Raymond  to  come.  .  .  .  Such 
a  visit  would  set  her  free.  .  .  .  She  could  go,  move  wherever 
she  pleased.  .  .  .  But  Evert  stayed  away.  He  was  not 
coming.  .  .  . 

In  the  meantime  it  was  July.  .  .  .  The  last  days  of  July, 
1914.  .  .  .  Rumblings  of  the  great  war  came.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
BEFORE  THE  STORM 

GEEMAN  socialists  call  peace  demonstration.  .  .  .  French 
workmen  plan  general  strike  to  prevent  war.  .  .  .  Keir 
Hardie  protests  against  war  in  Britain.  .  .  .  The  world  is 
waiting  to  hear  from  the  socialists.  .  .  . 

Hilda  went  to  bed  with  a  copy  of  the  Socialist  Call.  It 
was  hard  to  fall  asleep  at  such  decisive  moments.  .  .  .  The 
impending  war  in  Europe  was  a  personal  matter  with  her. 
.  .  .  The  strength,  the  honor  of  the  proletariat,  of  the  work 
ing  classes  everywhere,  was  involved.  .  .  .  The  world  was 
waiting  to  hear  from  the  socialists.  .  .  . 

"It  would  hear!"  the  socialist  paper  thundered  on  its 
editorial  page.  Capitalism  has  challenged  the  proletariat  of 
the  world,  and  the  proletariat  of  the  world  would  answer  the 
challenge.  .  .  .  "The  forces  of  labor  will  kill  the  god  of 
war  forever.  .  .  ." 

"The  forces  of  labor  will  kill  the  god  of  war  forever.  .  .  ." 
Hilda  was  trembling  with  anticipation.  She  fell  asleep  with 
a  threat  on  her  lips. 

In  the  morning  the  Times  had  a  different  story  to  tell: 

Germany  declares  martial  law.  Anti-war  demonstrations 
prohibited  in  Austria.  Jean  Jaures,  France's  leading  social 
ist,  shot.  .  .  .  Russian  armies  on  foot.  .  .  . 

235 


236  THE   ROAD 

As  a  willow  before  the  storm,  the  proletariat  of  the  world 
was  bending  its  head  before  the  god  of  war.  .  .  .  The 
socialist  organs  were  apologetic;  they  were  making  explana 
tions.  .  .  .  The  militarist  cliques  everywhere  were  too  well 
organized  for  the  coup.  .  .  .  They  had  forced  the  war  upon 
their  peoples  by  a  surprise  action  before  the  working  masses 
everywhere  could  countermand  their  sinister  plans.  .  .  . 

The  press  opposed  to  the  socialists,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  making  spirited  deductions.  It  spoke  of  the  death  of 
the  socialist  movement  everywhere.  .  .  .  The  war  had 
killed  international  socialism.  .  .  .  The  more  virulent  of  the 
anti-socialist  papers  were  writing  its  obituary.  .  .  .  Inter 
national  socialism  had  never  been  more  than  a  dream.  .  .  . 
The  socialists  and  pacifists  were  visionaries.  .  .  .  They  did 
not  know  human  nature.  They  were  ignoring  the  slow 
progress  of  the  race.  .  .  .  The  world  was  not  yet  ripe  for 
universal  peace. 

Hilda  read  these  editorials  in  the  "capitalist  press"  with 
compressed  lips.  ...  As  the  war  had  become  a  personal 
grief  to  her,  so  this  was  a  personal  humiliation.  ...  It  was 
an  insult  hurled  at  herself.  She  was  jeered  at  along  with 
the  other  socialists. 

There  were  months  of  such  invective  in  the  newspapers. 
Then  came  "good  times."  A  tide  of  prosperity  was  rolling 
over  the  country. 

The  cry  of  death  in  Europe  was  drowned  by  the  voice 
of  affluence  at  home.  .  .  .  Factories  were  turning  out  mu 
nitions  day  and  night.  .  .  .  Austrian,  German  and  Hun 
garian  workmen  in  America  were  fashioning  war  implements, 
guns  and  bullets  for  the  English  and  the  French  and  the 


BEFORE   THE   STORM  237 

Russians,  deadly  instruments  which  were  to  blow  their  broth 
ers  to  pieces.  .  .  . 

The  solidarity  of  labor  was  dead.  Hilda  now  walked  as 
if  the  ground  under  her  feet  belonged  to  some  one  else.  .  .  . 
She  had  grown  timid.  .  .  . 

Several  more  months  passed.  .  .  . 

People  were  taking  sides  violently.  .  .  .  Her  acquaint 
ances  took  sides.  .  .  .  For  the  French.  .  .  .  For  the  Ger 
mans.  .  .  .  Men  denounced  one  another.  .  .  .  Friendships 
were  broken.  .  .  . 

Hilda  kept  aloof  from  this  acrimonious  partisanship.  .  .  . 
Both  sides  were  trampling  down  her  ideals.  .  .  .  Both  were 
doing  the  work  of  murder.  .  .  .  Both  sides  had  gone 
mad.  .  .  . 

She  was  alone  a  great  deal  now  and  she  was  lonely.  .  .  . 
She  had  grown  weary  of  people.  .  .  .  They  frightened  her. 
.  .  .  Men,  most  of  them,  were  sheep.  .  .  .  They  were  led.  .  .  . 
They  craved  to  be  led.  .  .  .  They  could  be  stampeded 
into  anything.  .  .  .  And  those  that  were  not  sheep  were 
pigs.  .  .  .  Pigs  in  varying  degrees.  .  .  .  Some  wallowed  in 
big  wages  in  munition  factories.  .  .  .  Others  wallowed  in  big 
dividends  in  Wall  Street.  .  .  .  The  one  and  the  other  were 
selfish,  greedy,  beastly,  caring  not  for  the  wants  and  suf 
fering  of  others,  thinking  only  of  their  own  interests,  pleas 
ures,  gratifications.  .  .  . 

New  York,  kindly  human  New  York,  which  had  taken 
her  under  its  protecting  wing  when  she  fled  Chicago,  fled 
the  people  who  knew  her,  who  might  know  her,  New  York 
which  she  once  loved  fondly,  tenderly,  this  New  York  was 
no  longer  the  same.  It  had  gorged  itself  to  monstrous  pro- 


238  THE   ROAD 

portions  on  war  profits.  ...  It  was  reeling  drunk  on  blood 
money,  and  was  clamoring  for  more.  .  .  .  More  war.  .  .  . 
More  ammunition.  .  .  .  More  profits.  .  .  . 

This  New  York  was  becoming  daily  more  insufferable. 
It  was  weighing  her  mind  down.  ...  If  she  could  only 
escape  it,  for  a  time  at  least.  ...  If  there  was  only  a  way 
out.  .  .  . 

"Mother!"  Little  Raymond  had  cried  out  in  alarm  one 
evening  when  he  saw  Hilda  holding  a  spoonful  of  soup  in 
her  hand,  staring  at  it  with  glassy  eyes  as  if  not  knowing 
what  to  begin. 

Raymond  was  going  to  school  now.  He  was  big  for  his 
age.  .  .  .  But  Hilda  picked  him  up  in  her  arms  and  kissed 
and  cuddled  him  as  if  he  were  still  a  baby. 

At  ten  o'clock  as  she  was  undressing  she  was  surprised 
to  see  the  boy  sit  up  in  his  bed.  Raymond  was  wide  awake. 
His  eyes  were  shining. 

"You  haven't  been  sleeping?"  she  inquired. 

"No,  mama;  I  couldn't." 

She  bent  down  and  felt  his  forehead.  There  was  no  fever. 
Her  hand  glided  down  to  his  shoulders,  his  back. 

"Go  to  sleep,  child,"  she  murmured,  giving  him  a  good 
night  kiss. 

"Mama!"  Raymond  called  softly. 

She  was  gazing  at  him  indulgently. 

"Mama,  can  I  sleep  in  your  bed?" 

"Why,  child,  you  aren't  afraid,  are  you?" 

"No,  but  you  are.  .  .  ." 

Hilda  gazed  at  her  son,  started  to  say  something,  but 
changed  her  mind. 


BEFORE   THE   STORM  239 

She  extended  her  arms.  The  child  leaped  up  and  into 
them  with  a  cry  of  delight. 

...«••» 

Hilda's  correspondence  with  Hillstrom  became  more  fre 
quent.  She  wrote  to  him  often  and  feverishly.  Hillstrom's 
answers  were  just  as  frequent,  but  calm.  At  times  they 
were  sardonic.  He  was  writing  from  the  Far  West.  .  .  . 

"Your  great  trouble  in  New  York,"  he  wrote,  in  response 
to  one  of  her  letters,  "is  newspapers.  You  let  them  think 
for  you,  decide  for  you.  My  advice  to  you  is,  if  you  can't 
cease  reading  them,  at  any  rate  cease  believing  them.  .  .  . 
Throw  off  the  spell  the  newspapers  have  cast  upon  you.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  time  when  men  believed  in  soothsayers.  Be 
fore  that  they  believed  in  oracles.  Then  they  learned  more 
and  ceased  to  believe  in  the  one  or  in  the  other.  But  the 
world  moved  on  just  the  same.  ...  The  editorial  writers 
on  most  of  your  newspapers  are  no  wiser  and  no  truer 
than  the  oracles  of  old.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  worry  about  the  fate  of  socialism,"  he  wrote  her 
on  another  occasion.  "The  obituaries  in  the  capitalist  pa 
pers  won't  even  harm  it,  let  alone  kill  it.  Were  the  kaiser 
to  destroy  every  word  Karl  Marx  ever  wrote,  were  the 
chauvinists  of  France  to  make  a  bonfire  of  every  issue  of 
L'Humanite,  which  Jaures  inspired,  it  would  avail  them 
nothing.  Truth,  once  spoken,  is  never  silenced.  A  great 
idea  never  dies.  And  man,  poor,  loathsome  creature  that 
he  is  at  times,  has,  in  the  main,  never  gone  back  on  a  just 
cause.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  let  despair  master  you,"  he  ended  another  of  his 
missives.  "The  people  are  right  even  when  their  actions  are 


240  THE   ROAD 

wrong.  They  are  what  the  past  has  made  them.  They  will 
be  what  the  future  will  make  them.  The  masses  are  the  in 
heritors  of  the  earth,  and  with  unselfish  and  proper  guidance 
they  will  yet  make  the  earth  free  and  beautiful.  Be  pa 
tient." 

And  again: 

"The  war  also  serves.  It  is  building  the  new  order  by 
destroying  the  old.  ...  It  destroys  institutions  as  ruthlessly 
as  it  destroys  lives.  ...  It  is  undermining  the  capitalistic 
system  most  effectively,  though  the  capitalists  don't  see  it. 
War  is  a  great  destroyer  of  superstitions.  Before  we  have 
done  with  it,  the  toilers  of  half  the  world  will  have  shaken 
off  many  illusions  about  the  superiority  of  their  masters. 
.  .  .  Many  of  the  rights,  privileges  and  traditions  which  our 
capitalist  state  of  society  has  set  up  will  be  groveling  in  the 
dust.  .  .  .  Reaction  has  always  been  the  great  accelerator 
of  revolution." 

"What  you  say  is  all  true,  too  true,"  Hilda  wrote  back. 
"But  it  isn't  easy  to  maintain  one's  poise  hereabouts.  The 
profiteers  and  money  changers  are  circling  in  a  mad  dance, 
.  .  .  The  atmosphere  in  New  York  is  suffocating.  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  it  is,"  Hillstrom  replied,  "but  this  is  just  as 
it  should  be.  We  are  on  the  eve  of  a  storm.  A  world  storm 
is  gathering,  and  the  atmosphere  always  is  heavy  just  before 
a  storm.  .  .  ." 

"I'm  taking  to  poetry,"  Hilda  confided  to  him  one  Sun 
day  evening  soon  after.  "I'm  reading  Walt  Whitman. 
What  a  delight  it  is  now  that  the  herd  instinct  is  lifting 
its  head  everywhere,  now  that  men  fear  to  stand  alone  and 
are  seeking  the  company  of  like  minds,  or  rather,  of  like 


BEFORE   THE   STORM  241 

passions  and  prejudices — what  a  relief  it  is  to  come  to  Walt 
Whitman,  to  spend  an  hour  with  one  who  dared  to  stand 
alone,  who  shows  the  way  to  stand  alone.  .  .  . 

"I  was  reading  this  afternoon  his  'Song  of  the  Open 
Road.'  How  I  wish  that  I  too  might  be  'afoot  and  light- 
hearted'  and  that  I  too  might  'take  to  the  open  road.' 
The  'open  road's'  what  I  have  been  consciously  and  uncon 
sciously  dreaming  of  and  pining  for  in  recent  months,  the 
mad  recent  months.  .  .  ." 

"If  there's  nothing  in  New  York  to  hold  you,  what  pre 
vents  you  from  leaving  it?"  Hillstrom's  reply  was  brief. 
"The  open  road  is  open  to  all.  Why  not  take  it?  Why 
not  come  West?  You'll  find  bread  here.  And  people,  too. 
...  I  shall  write  about  it  shortly." 

"Why  not?" 

A  second  letter  came  from  Hillstrom  three  days  later  and 
in  the  same  mail  came  another  communication.  It  was  from 
the  secretary  of  the  Miners'  Union  in  Arizona.  Hillstrom 
had  spoken  of  her  desire  to  come  West,  the  letter  said.  He 
had  recommended  her  to  the  miners'  organization,  and  the 
organization  was  offering  her  a  post.  .  .  .  Hillstrom  be 
lieved,  and  they  quite  agreed  with  him,  that  she  would  be 
very  valuable  to  them.  They  knew  of  the  work  of  the  Shop 
Safety  Committee  in  New  York,  knew  of  her  share  in  it. 
They  were  soon  to  launch  certain  vital  campaigns,  and  a 
quick  answer  would  be  appreciated.  The  salary  was  stated. 
It  could  be  increased  if  she  found  it  insufficient.  Wrould 
she  reply  by  wire? 

Hillstrom  in  his  letter  urged  her  to  accept  the  offer  of 
the  Miners'  Union  at  once. 


242  THE  ROAD 

"Thus  far,"  he  wrote,  "you've  seen  capitalism  work  with 
gloves,  sometimes  even  with  silk  gloves.  In  the  cities  of 
the  East  there's  a  public  opinion  which  often  compels  the 
capitalist  to  keep  within  the  limits  of  decency.  There's  no 
public  opinion  here.  There's  no  middle  class  here,  only 
miners  and  mine  managers.  The  press,  the  pulpit,  the  few 
professionals,  are  the  retainers  of  the  companies,  of  the  big 
interests.  .  .  .  Capitalism  here  rides  rough  shod.  .  .  ." 
*  He  described  conditions  to  her.  The  miners  were  treated 
like  serfs ;  the  mine  owners  acted  like  feudal  barons.  Their 
henchmen  even  took  the  life  of  individuals  whom  they  con 
sidered  dangerous  to  their  interests.  Men  were  slain  and 
the  murderers  never  apprehended,  though  half  the  town 
knew  who  they  were. 

The  union  was  now  preparing  to  make  a  stand  against 
these  conditions.  It  was  preparing  to  call  a  strike,  to  call 
more  than  one  strike,  if  necessary.  That  was  the  "cam 
paign"  the  secretary  of  the  miners'  organization  was  writing 
her  about.  He,  Hillstrom,  had  not  recommended  her  for 
the  job  merely  out  of  consideration  for  herself.  He  hon 
estly  believed  she  would  be  of  great  use  to  the  miners  in 
this  struggle. 

Hilda  read  this  letter  twice.  Then  she  turned  to  little 
Raymond.  It  was  before  supper. 

"Sonny,"  she  said,  "would  you  like  to  go  away  from  here? 
Far  away;  four  or  five  days  by  train?" 

"Would  you,  mother?" 

"Why,  I  think  'twould  be  nice,"  she  said.  "It  ought  to 
be  nice  out  there,  and  'twould  be  nice  to  travel.  Be- 


BEFORE   THE    STORM  243 

sides,  if  we  didn't  like  it,  we  could  always  come  back  to 
New  York." 

"Good."  Little  Raymond  threw  his  arms  about  her  neck. 
"When  do  we  start?" 

"Very  soon,"  she  answered. 

They  ate  their  supper  in  silence.  When  the  meal  was 
done  Raymond  asked,  "Have  we  anybody  there,  mama? 
Any  relations?" 

"No,"  Hilda  said,  "we  have  no  relations  there." 

Beth  were  quiet. 


On  a  sunny  afternoon  early  in  the  spring  Hilda  left  New 
York.  It  was  Monday,  people  were  working,  and  there 
was  no  one  to  accompany  her  and  little  Raymond  to  the 
railway  station.  When  the  train  emerged  from  the  under 
ground  stretch  of  road  into  the  open,  the  city,  with  its 
skyscraper  heart  and  tenement  flanks,  lay  far  to  the  rear. 
They  were  on  the  outskirts.  It  was  roomier.  Tenements 
were  becoming  scarcer  and  new,  up-to-date  apartment  houses 
more  frequent. 

The  train  was  humming  along.  .  .  .  The  engine  whistled 
lustily  like  a  young  colt  neighing  in  the  pasture.  The 
country  was  all  about  them  now.  What  beautiful  coun 
try.  .  .  .  The  fields  were  leaping  forward  and  rolling  back 
in  green  waves.  The  tree  tops  bowed  as  if  in  greeting.  .  .  . 

A  mellowness  came  over  Hilda.  She  felt  as  if  the  fields, 
the  brooks,  the  trees,  all  knew  where  she  was  going,  and 
were  wishing  her  godspeed.  With  the  breeze  a  soft  whisper 


244  THE    ROAD 

seemed  to  be  wafted  to  her.  It  was  the  fields;  they  were 
speaking  to  her.  .  .  .  They  were  telling  her  not  to  think 
of  them  unkindly  in  the  new  places  she  was  going  to,  to 
harbor  no  grudges.  It  was  not  their  fault  that  they  had 
been  so  distant.  .  .  .  People  had  put  so  many  obstacles  in 
their  way.  .  .  .  They  had  built  a  whole  city  between  them 
selves  and  the  meadows.  .  .  . 

But  she  must  not  harbor  any  ill  feelings  against  the  city 
and  people  either,  the  voice  was  pleading  further.  .  .  .  Peo 
ple  were  after  all  only  people.  .  .  .  Forgive  them,  for  they 
know  not  what  they  do.  ...  Where  had  she  read  it?  Oh, 
yes.  ...  It  was  Jesus.  ...  So  far  back,  and  still  so  mod 
ern,  still  so  true.  .  .  .  Yes,  people  were  always  people.  .  .  . 
Man  was  always  making  the  earth  a  hell  for  his  neighbor. 

She  was  lost  in  reflections.  .  .  . 

They  had  an  hour's  wait  between  trains  in  Chicago. 
Hilda  located  a  telephone  station  and  began  looking  through 
the  directory  for  the  Everts.  She  found  the  "Evert  Con 
struction  Company,"  the  name  of  Henry  Evert's  concern. 
There  was  an  Evert,  not  Henry  Evert,  living  on  Independ 
ence  Boulevard.  Must  be  a  son,  she  thought.  What  had 
become  of  the  old  man?  .  .  . 

There  was  no  telephone  in  Raymond  Evert's  name.  She 
looked  him  up  in  the  classified  directory  under  lawyers. 
There  was  no  trace  of  him  there  either.  It  puzzled  her. 
She  had  a  firm  belief  that  Raymond  was  a  lawyer.  She 
thought  that  he  would  be  a  figure  in  the  community  by  this 
time.  She  looked  once  more.  .  .  .  Twice.  .  .  .  There  was 
no  trace  of  Raymond  anywhere. 

She  went  out  into  the  street  and  took  a  stroll  with  the 


BEFORE   THE   STORM  245 

child  for  a  few  blocks.  .  .  .  Her  heart  was  beating  fast. 
.  .  .  The  city  was  so  familiar.  .  .  . 

"Mother,"  little  Raymond  suddenly  asked,  "have  I  any 
uncles  here?  Johnny  Starke  says  he's  got  an  uncle  in 
Chicago." 

Hilda  gazed  at  him  without  answering.  Raymond's  mind 
was  working  very  fast  these  days.  The  journey  seemed  to 
be  stimulating  it.  He  was  asking  questions  continually. 

"No,  you  have  no  uncles  here,"  she  said  finally. 

She  turned  back  to  the  station,  and  they  went  in  search 
of  their  train. 

Toward  evening,  on  the  fourth  day,  the  train  dropped 
down  into  a  valley,  and  Hilda  discerned  in  the  distance 
the  outlines  of  a  town  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain.  It  looked 
vague  and  shadowy  at  first,  like  a  city  painted  on  canvas, 
such  as  she  had  sometimes  seen  on  the  stage.  Gradually 
the  place  gained  in  clearness  and  stood  out  in  definite  out 
line.  There  were  streets,  public  buildings,  mills. 

Hillstrom  was  on  the  platform  waiting  for  them. 

The  "campaign"  of  which  the  secretary  of  the  miners' 
organization  had  written  Hilda,  had  already  begun,  he  in 
formed  her.  The  first  of  a  series  of  strikes  in  the  copper 
mines  had  been  called  at  noon  that  day.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   XIX 
RAYMOND  EVERT  COMES 

IT  was  the  summer  of  1917.  Two  years  had  elapsed  since 
Hilda  Thorsen  came  to  Vulcan  City  to  take  up  her  work 
with  tie  Federation  of  Miners.  Much  had  happened  in 
those  two  years. 

When  Hilda  left  New  York,  the  existence  of  Vulcan  City 
was  scarcely  noted.  It  had  since,  however,  been  figuring 
frequently  on  the  first  page  of  every  newspaper  in  America. 
The  series  of  strikes  in  the  copper  mines,  which  began 
shortly  after  she  arrived  and  were  going  on  intermittently, 
had  focused  national  attention  on  the  Arizona  mining  city. 
The  strikes  had  become  a  national  issue. 

Copper  was  king  at  the  time;  the  war  had  made  it  so. 
It  was  the  nerve  running  through  every  war  industry. 
Scores  upon  scores  of  munition  factories  were  gasping  for 
copper  as  a  drowning  man  gasps  for  air.  These  strikes 
were  interfering  with  copper  production. 

The  struggle  between  the  mine  managers — the  owners  of 
the  mines  lived  three  thousand  miles  away  in  the  East — 
and  the  miners  descended  to  a  level  of  bitterness  Hilda 
had  never  before  witnessed.  Law  and  restraint  appeared 
to  have  been  thrown  to  the  winds  and  strength  alone  seemed 
to  count.  Strength  was  on  the  side  of  the  mine  managers 
and  was  used  to  the  utmost.  Strikers  were  evicted  from 

246 


RAYMOND   EVERT   COMES       247 

their  homes.  Those  having  no  homes  were  shipped  out  of 
the  state  and  told  never  to  return.  Men  were  imprisoned 
on  all  sorts  of  possible  and  impossible  charges. 

Often  during  these  struggles  Hilda  had  occasion  to  re 
call  Hillstrom's  words  about  capitalism  riding  "rough 
shod"  in  the  mines.  "Rough  shod"  seemed  to  be  the  pre 
cise  manner  in  which  the  mine  managers  were  working. 

There  was  much  misery,  and  to  alleviate  this  misery  had 
become  her  task  in  the  Miners'  Federation.  Hilda  was  put 
in  charge  of  the  "Strikers'  Relief." 

This  work  carried  with  it  more  than  one  implication. 
She  was  not  merely  to  disburse  union  money  to  the  fam 
ilies  of  the  strikers.  She  was  to  see  to  it  also  that  the  treas 
ury  of  the  union  was  kept  rilled,  or  at  least  half  filled. 
The  entire  labor  movement  of  America  had  to  be  enlisted  on 
the  side  of  the  strikers.  Appeals  were  sent  out  to  it  for 
help.  With  these  appeals  went  reports  of  the  situation,  ac 
counts  of  the  money  spent,  pictures  of  the  suffering  this 
money  had  alleviated.  Hilda  prepared  these  appeals,  ac 
counts,  pictures. 

Her  existence  had  become  merged  with  that  of  the  people 
about  her.  She  lived  in  their  hopes,  sorrowed  with  their 
griefs.  Her  own  life,  her  personal  problems,  her  dreams, 
everything  had  become  obliterated  for  the  time  being — 
everything,  except  her  child. 

Little  Raymond  was  not  out  of  her  thoughts  for  an 
instant.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  absorbing  her  attention 
more  and  more.  They  were  drawing  nearer  to  one  an 
other.  They  were  becoming  companions.  What  Hilda  had 
been  dreaming  many  years  back  was  gradually  coming  true. 


248  THE   ROAD 

.  .  .  The  child  could  be  talked  to  now.  ...  He  was  grow 
ing  up  to  her  mentally  at  an  unusual  pace.  .  .  . 

Taking  her  cue  from  her  dead  friend  Ada  and  the  latter's 
son  Willy  (with  whom  she  was  keeping  up  a  correspond 
ence),  Hilda  tried  to  interest  her  boy  in  music.  She  bought 
him  a  violin  and  he  was  taking  lessons.  But  little  Ray 
mond  was  more  interested  in  books. 

At  the  beginning  of  his  ninth  year  he  was  already  in  the 
fourth  grade.  His  teachers  had  twice  skipped  him  to  a 
higher  class.  He  was  a  frequent  visitor  to  the  public  li 
brary.  On  his  way  back  from  the  library  on  Saturday  aft 
ernoons,  when  Hilda  was  nearly  always  alone  in  the  office, 
Raymond  would  come  up.  He  would  slip  into  a  corner  of 
the  room,  where  he  could  scarcely  be  noticed,  and  would 
sit  and  read  or  study  the  pictures  in  the  book  while  his 
mother  worked. 

From  time  to  time  Hilda's  eyes  would  seek  out  those 
of  her  son,  and  they  would  exchange  smiles,  but  he  would 
not  stir  from  his  place  until  he  saw  her  close  her  desk. 
Then  they  would  go  home  together,  promenading  slowly 
through  the  city's  main  street.  Hilda  was  looking  forward 
to  these  Saturday  afternoon  walks  with  her  child  as  to 
something  very  pleasurable. 

They  were  living  at  the  home  of  a  miner,  a  Servian,  whose 
name  after  many  transmutations  had  become  reduced  to 
John  Savitz.  Savitz  was  a  man  in  the  early  thirties,  with 
the  figure  of  a  giant  and  the  face  of  a  boy.  He  was  a  friend 
of  Hillstrom's.  Pie  and  his  wife  were  both  socialists.  They 
bad  three  boys,  the  oldest  of  whom  was  in  his  fifth  year. 

Hilda's  status  in  the  Savitz  home  was  not  that  of  a 


RAYMOND   EVERT   COMES        249 

tenant,  or  roomer.  It  was  more  that  of  a  comrade-in-arms, 
of  a  fellow-conspirator  in  the  cause  of  the  overthrow  of 
capitalism. 

Savitz  lived  on  a  quiet  little  street  at  the  edge  of  the 
town.  He  was  naturally  circumspect  and  careful,  having 
been  a  revolutionist  in  the  old  world.  This,  combined  with 
the  isolated  location  of  his  home,  and  the  fact  that  Hilda 
lived  in  it,  made  his  house  a  convenient  place  to  meet  for 
discussion.  Several  times  during  the  week  Hilda's  asso 
ciates  in  the  union  would  come  up  for  informal  conferences. 
On  such  evenings  the  modest  living  room  of  the  Savitz  fam 
ily  vibrated  with  secrecy  and  excitement. 

They  were  arresting  strikers  and  their  spokesmen  daily, 
and  the  leaders  often  discussed  the  possibility  of  their  own 
going  to  jail:  what  was  to  be  done  in  case  one  or  the  other 
of  them  was  arrested;  who  was  to  step  into  his  place;  how 
the  organization  was  to  be  kept  going. 

For  a  long  time  these  conversations  meant  nothing  to 
little  Raymond.  But  one  day  he  woke  to  their  significance. 
All  at  once  the  grim  struggle  in  the  mines  assumed  mean 
ing  in  his  little  head.  It  dawned  upon  him  that  this  strug 
gle  concerned  his  mother,  himself;  their  well-being  was  in 
the  balance.  .  .  . 

On  the  nights  when  Hilda's  union  associates  came  to  the 
house  little  Raymond  would  now  lie  awake  for  hours,  strain 
ing  his  ear  to  catch  every  word  the  men  in  the  living  room 
were  saying.  The  conviction  had  settled  upon  him  that  he 
would  wake  some  morning,  or  perhaps  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  to  find  something  terrible  happening.  .  .  .  What  if 
his  mother  should  be  arrested,  imprisoned!  .  .  .  Whom 


250  THE   ROAD 

could  he  remain  with?  ...  On  such  nights  his  cries  and 
moans  would  often  rouse  Hilda  from  her  sleep,  and  the  next 
morning  Raymond  would  wonder  how  he  happened  to  find 
himself  in  his  mother's  bed,  to  be  waking  in  her  arms.  .  .  . 
He  began  watching  over  Hilda  like  a  hawk.  ...  In  the 
evening,  when  it  was  time  for  her  to  come  home,  he  would 
run  several  blocks  to  meet  her,  wait  for  her.  The  child  was 
now  constantly  searching  the  expression  on  her  face,  in  her 
eyes.  From  her  gaze,  her  smile,  or  the  absence  of  a  smile, 
he  could  tell  whether  things  were  going  well  or  ill,  and  he 
would  be  cheerful  or  subdued  accordingly.  .  .  . 


The  struggle  in  the  mines  was  approaching  a  climax. 
America  was  in  the  war  and  the  first  contingent  of  Ameri 
can  troops  was  already  in  the  trenches  on  the  battlefields 
of  France.  Hitherto  the  mine  owners  were  interested  in 
copper  solely  for  business.  The  guns  and  ammunition  into 
whose  manufacture  it  went  were  exported  to  England,  to 
France,  to  Russia.  It  had  been  a  question  of  profits  and 
dividends  only.  The  situation  was  changed  now.  The  pro 
duction  of  copper  had  become  a  matter  of  national  defense; 
it  concerned  America  directly. 

The  mine  managers  redoubled  their  invectives.  The 
strikers  were  called  traitors.  They  were  harassed,  they  were 
threatened.  The  cloak  of  patriotism  was  often  made  to 
shield  personal  vengeance,  meanness  and  retaliation. 

The  miners  replied  by  appealing  to  the  government  for 
an  investigation  of  their  grievances.  They  asked  for  a  gov 
ernment  commission.  The  Federation  was  straining  every 


RAYMOND   EVERT   COMES       251 

effort  to  have  the  government  appoint  such  a  commission. 

The  entire  summer  passed  in  the  framing  of  appeals  by 
the  union,  and  in  adducing  evidence  justifying  these  appeals, 
for  a  government  investigating  body.  Labor  organizations 
in  the  East  joined  with  the  strikers  in  the  demand  for  such 
a  body.  There  were  grounds  to  believe  that  the  commis 
sion  asked  for  would  ultimately  be  appointed.  ...  In  the 
meantime  it  was  delayed.  .  .  .  The  delay  was  horrible, 
despairing.  .  .  .  But  it  came  to  an  end. 

One  Saturday  morning  a  brief  telegram  from  the  Federa 
tion's  counsel  in  Washington  announced  that  an  investigat 
ing  commission  of  five  had  just  been  appointed  by  the 
president. 

The  next  morning  the  Vulcan  City  Record  announced  the 
personnel  of  the  commission.  Hilda  glanced  down  the  list 
of  names  and  the  words  began  to  dance  before  her  eyes. 
In  another  instant  the  entire  page  looked  like  a  blur.  She 
saw  nothing.  Her  head  felt  as  if  it  had  been  struck  a 
deafening  blow.  .  .  . 

When  things  cleared  before  her  eyes  she  picked  up  the 
paper  which  had  fallen  to  the  ground.  Most  likely,  she 
thought,  it  was  her  nerves  that  had  given  way  on  her.  .  .  . 
She  had  worked  so  hard  in  the  last  few  weeks.  ...  It  was 
her  overwrought  imagination — nothing  more. 

She  scanned  the  list  of  names  again.  .  .  .  This  time  she 
could  not  doubt  it.  He  was  there,  Raymond  was  there.  .  .  . 
He  was  one  of  the  commission.  .  .  .  He  was  third  on  the 
list.  .  .  .  "Raymond  Evert,  Chicago."  That  was  the  way 
the  third  commissioner  was  designated.  .  .  .  Raymond  was 
coming  to  Vulcan  City. 


252  THE    ROAD 

Raymond  Evert.  .  .  . 

She  collected  herself  and  was  thinking  clearly  once  more. 
She  had  not  expected  to  meet  him  in  just  such  a  manner, 
did  not  wish  for  him  at  this  juncture.  .  .  .  With  the  strike 
in  its  acutest  stage  this  was  no  time  for  personal  affairs, 
personal  heartaches.  .  .  . 

But  he  was  here.  Raymond  was  here.  He  would  be 
coming  in  ten  days — in  two  weeks.  .  .  .  She  would  see 
him.  She  would  have  to  see  him.  .  .  .  She  would  probably 
be  one  of  the  witnesses  before  him.  .  .  . 

She  was  searching  the  paper  once  more.  .  .  . 

There  were  brief  biographies  of  each  of  the  five  com 
missioners.  There  was  one  of  Raymond. 

"Mr.  Evert,"  the  paragraph  said,  "is  a  well-known  social 
reformer  in  Chicago.  He  is  the  founder  of  the  Clean  Poli 
tics  League  in  that  city  and  for  a  number  of  years  served 
as  the  league's  president.  He  is  interested  in  child  labor 
problems,  in  mothers'  pensions,  and  in  kindred  social  and 
philanthropic  movements.  He  is  a  graduate  of  the  Chicago 
University.  His  wife  is  the  well-known  settlement  worker, 
Mrs.  Maude  Straight-Evert,  head  of  the  famous  Democracy 
Home  Settlement  in  the  metropolis  of  the  Middle  West." 

Her  weakness  and  dizziness  came  back.  She  had  been 
standing,  reading  the  paper,  on  the  porch.  She  now  walked 
into  the  house  again,  and  into  her  room.  It  was  six  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  Every  one  was  still  asleep.  It  was  Sun 
day.  Raymond  would  be  sleeping  another  two  hours  yet. 
Hilda  dressed  herself  noiselessly  and  left  the  house. 

She  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  open  country.  After 
fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  she  came  to  a  place  where  she 


RAYMOND   EVERT   COMES        253 

often  sat  alone,  thinking.  She  dropped  down  upon  the 
grass. 

"His  wife  is  the  well-known  settlement  worker,  Mrs. 
Maude  Straight-Evert.  .  .  ." 

Hilda  read  these  lines  again  and  again.  .  .  .  Raymond 
was  married.  ...  Of  course.  Had  she  not  expected  it  all 
along.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing  in  the  biographical  item 
about  his  being  a  lawyer.  He  might  not  have  taken  up  law, 
but  old  Henry  Evert  had  gained  his  point  all  the  same. 
Raymond  was  a  somebody.  ...  He  was  playing  a  part 
in  the  community.  Yes,  his  father  always  got  what  he  went 
after,  whether  it  was  business,  money,  fame.  .  .  . 

"Maude  Straight-Evert.  .  .  ."  Hilda  had  known  a  num 
ber  of  women  settlement  workers  in  New  York.  They 
would  often  volunteer  to  serve  as  pickets  during  strikes,  and 
were  always  getting  themselves  written  up  in  the  news 
papers.  .  .  . 

Her  work  had  brought  her  directly  in  touch  with  the  head 
of  a  social  settlement,  a  Mrs.  Richardson- Grant.  Mrs. 
Richardson-Grant  was  a  tall,  portly  woman  who  bore  her 
self  impressively.  She  showed  off  wonderfully  kind  in  pho 
tographs  in  which  she  was  surrounded  by  poor  little  children 
or  immigrant  mothers. 

Mrs.  Richardson-Grant's  husband,  Dr.  Archibald  Ellery 
Grant,  was  the  antithesis  of  his  distinguished  helpmeet.  He 
was  of  nondescript  stature  and  looks,  was  shy  and  retiring. 
He  had  no  decided  opinions  on  anything  and  never  contra 
dicted  his  wife.  Mrs.  Richardson-Grant  was  always  getting 
her  husband  appointed  to  committees,  councils,  and  hon 
orary  vice-presidencies.  .  .  . 


254  THE   ROAD 

Was  Mrs.  Straight-Evert  just  such  a  woman,  Hilda  won 
dered,  and  how  had  Raymond  come  to  know  her?  How 
did  he  come  to  be  the  husband  of  the  head  of  a  social 
settlement?  Had  he  fallen  in  love  with  her?  Was  he 
happy?  Did  they  have  children?  Such  women  usually 
don't.  Had  he  changed  much?  How  did  he  look?  It  was 
ten  years  since  she  saw  him.  .  .  . 

She  was  alone  in  the  afternoon  and  she  was  glad  when 
evening  came.  She  went  to  bed  early,  but  did  not  fall 
asleep  until  late.  .  .  .  There  was  much  work  in  the  office 
in  the  next  few  days.  There  were  frequent  conferences 
with  regard  to  the  witnesses  the  union  would  put  up,  the 
evidence  it  would  submit.  The  days  and  evenings  passed 
quickly.  The  nights  were  long.  .  .  .  Hilda  could  not 
sleep.  .  .  . 

On  Saturday  the  Mail,  Vulcan  City's  only  evening  pa 
per,  contained  the  photographs  of  the  commission.  Hilda 
had  been  waiting  for  them. 

The  picture  of  Raymond  was  a  surprise  to  her.  .  .  .  She 
had  expected  him  to  look  differently.  .  .  .  His  features 
were  thin  and  sharp.  His  eyes  were  deep.  There  was 
nothing  worldly  either  about  his  face  or  his  eyes.  They 
were  rather  ascetic.  His  thoughts  seemed  to  be  turned 
inward.  .  .  .  Raymond  was  not  happy.  .  .  . 

She  kept  the  paper  on  her  desk  until  it  was  time  to  go 
home,  and  then  she  took  it  with  her.  While  sitting  on  the 
porch  waiting  for  supper,  she  was  again  gazing  at  it.  Little 
Raymond  came  up,  nestled  close  to  her,  and  looked  at  the 
paper.  He  had  already  heard  that  the  men  whose  photo- 


RAYMOND   EVERT  COMES       255 

graphs  were  in  the  paper  were  the  five  commissioners  the 
government  was  sending  down  to  study  and  adjust  the 
strike.  He  gazed  at  the  pictures  and  read  the  inscriptions 
under  each  photograph. 

When  he  came  to  the  word  "Raymond"  under  the  pic 
ture  of  Evert  he  stopped  and  took  another  look  at  the  pho 
tograph.  Hilda  watched  his  face. 

"Mama,"  the  child  looked  up,  "this  man  has  the  same 
name  as  mine.  His  name  is  Raymond,  too.  Raymond 
Evert." 

Hilda  nodded  that  she  knew.  Little  Raymond  was  now 
studying  the  picture  with  interest. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  He  looked  up  from  the  paper 
abruptly.  Hilda  was  not  surprised  by  his  question.  Vaguely 
she  seemed  to  expect  it. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

Raymond's  eyes  darted  from  the  picture  to  his  mother, 
from  his  mother  to  the  picture. 

"Where'd  you  meet  him?" 

"In  Chicago." 

"In  Chicago?  That  must  be  long  ago, — before  I  was 
born." 

"Yes,  a  long  time  back."  Hilda  blinked  her  eyes  as  if 
they  had  suddenly  filled  with  sand. 

"Is  he  our  relation?"  the  child  asked  with  a  quaver  of 
excitement. 

"No,  he's  not,"  she  replied  calmly. 

Savitz,  who  had  been  busy  in  the  rear  of  the  house, 
came  up. 


256  THE   ROAD 

"Mama  knows  this  man,"  little  Raymond  shouted,  ex 
citedly  pointing  to  the  picture  of  Evert  in  the  paper.  "He 
has  the  same  name  as  I." 

"Do  you  know  any  one  on  the  commission?"  Savitz  asked 
interestedly.  He  was  thinking  that  it  would  be  a  great 
advantage  to  the  miners  if  she  knew  some  one  personally 
and  could  talk  to  him  about  the  situation  as  to  a  friend 
privately. 

"Yes,  I  know  one  of  the  men  on  the  commission,  this  one 
here,"  Hilda  confirmed  her  son's  statement  and  also  pointed 
to  the  picture  of  Evert. 

Savitz  studied  the  photograph  intently  for  some  moments. 
When  he  again  looked  at  Hilda  her  face  and  neck  were 
crimson.  Both  were  embarrassed,  she  because  she  blushed, 
and  he  because  he  had  seen  her  blush. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Savitz  called  from  inside  the  house 
that  supper  was  ready.  Both  were  greatly  relieved. 


The  union  was  counting  on  Hilda  as  one  of  its  principal 
witnesses.  She  was  to  sketch  the  life  of  the  miners  before 
the  commission,  to  tell  of  their  families,  their  homes.  Hav 
ing  lived  in  New  York  and  been  active  in  the  labor  move 
ment  there,  she  was  to  draw  a  parallel  between  the  East  and 
the  West,  showing  the  semi-feudal  conditions  under  which 
the  miners  worked  and  lived.  She  was  a  woman  and  would 
probably  be  allowed  to  speak  where  a  man  might  be  si 
lenced. 

They  were  busy  day  and  night  at  the  union  office.  Hilda 
was  absorbed  and  unusually  quiet.  Her  associates  thought 


RAYMOND   EVERT   COMES       257 

she  was  meditating  on  the  testimony  she  was  to  give,  and 
they  disturbed  her  as  little  as  possible. 

It  was  not,  however,  the  testimony  Hilda  was  thinking 
about;  it  was  her  own  affairs.  The  labor  drama  was 
receding  into  the  background;  the  drama  of  her  own  life 
was  coming  to  the  front.  ...  To  meet  Raymond  Evert,  to 
clear  matters  with  him  once  for  all  she  had  wished  again 
and  again, — but  not  under  such  circumstances,  not  in  such 
a  public  way.  .  .  . 

However,  she  was  making  up  her  mind  to  things.  She 
would  face  the  situation  as  she  had  faced  every  other  situa 
tion.  ,  .  .  She  would  go  on  the  witness  stand  before  the 
commission.  She  would  meet  him.  .  .  . 

One  precaution  she  would  take,  though,  for  the  sake 
of  the  cause  she  was  to  plead,  and  also  for  her  own  sake, 
She  would  not  come  before  the  commission,  before  Ray 
mond  abruptly.  She  would  write  him  a  note  to  let  him  know 
of  her  connection  with  the  union  and  that  she  was  to  be  a 
witness  in  behalf  of  the  strikers.  Yes,  she  would  do  that. 
.  .  .  They  should  not  meet  unexpectedly. 

Several  evenings  in  succession  she  composed  letters  to 
him.  In  the  morning  she  tore  them  up.  Some  of  these  let 
ters  were  long  and  vehement  and  described  in  detail  her 
trials,  her  suffering,  her  humiliation,  in  the  ten  years  that 
passed.  Others  were  caustic  and  full  of  vengeance.  The 
ones  and  the  others  appeared  to  her  too  personal,  futile, 
and  beside  the  point.  .  .  .  She  was  not  demanding  any 
thing  of  him.  .  .  .  She  did  not  wish  Raymond  to  atone  for 
anything.  .  .  .  She  had  long  since  risen  above  the  thought 
of  personal  gratification,  satisfaction.  .  .  .  She  wished 


258  THE   ROAD 

merely  a  final  word  with  him,  a  final  understanding,— and 
then  their  roads  would  part  forever.  .  .  . 

The  afternoon  when  the  commission  was  to  come  arrived. 
The  entire  population  of  Vulcan  City, — some  twelve  thou 
sand  souls  in  all, — was  tense  with  expectation.  On  her  way 
home  Hilda  passed  the  city's  principal  hotel.  There  were 
crowds  of  people  in  front  of  it.  The  commission  had  come. 
Her  letter  was  not  yet  written. 

When  she  got  to  her  room  she  penned  the  following  note: 

"To  MR.  RAYMOND  EVERT: 

"I  am  living  here  with  my  son.  As  I  am  employed  in  the 
office  of  the  miners'  organization  and  shall  probably  be 
called  as  one  of  the  witnesses  before  your  commission,  I 
thought  I  had  better  let  you  know. 

"HILDA  THORSEN." 

Since  John  Savitz  had  seen  Hilda  blush  several  days 
earlier  when  she  confirmed  her  child's  statement  that  she 
knew  one  of  the  men  on  the  commission,  a  feeling  of  shyness 
had  sprung  up  between  them — and  also  of  intimacy. 

In  spite  of  the  hardships  the  strike  entailed,  in  spite  of 
the  excitement  and  insecurity  of  her  life,  Hilda,  who  was 
now  entering  her  thirties,  had  gained  both  in  strength  and  in 
looks.  Her  figure  had  rounded.  The  added  plumpness  did 
not  in  the  least  detract,  however,  from  her  dignified  poise 
and  simple  stateliness  of  carriage.  Her  stern,  manless  exist 
ence,  in  view  of  her  physical  attractiveness  and  charm,  had 
occasionally  puzzled  Savitz. 

In  a  vague  way  he  became  conscious  that  Evert,  whose 
picture  he  had  since  studied  carefully  in  his  own  copy  of 


RAYMOND   EVERT   COMES       259 

the  paper,  had  something  to  do  with  Hilda  Thorsen's  mode 
of  living.  He  was  not  inquisitive,  but  he  was  waiting  to  be 
told  more  about  it,  to  be  asked,  to  be  confided  in.  He  felt 
that  this  would  come. 

When  Hilda,  after  supper,  with  her  eyes  more  than  with 
her  voice,  told  him  that  she  wanted  to  see  him  alone  for  a 
few  minutes,  his  reply  was  an  eager  nod  which  seemed  to 
indicate  that  he  understood  and  was  ready  for  any  service 
she  might  ask  of  him. 

"There's  a  note,"  she  said  to  him  when  they  were  aloner 
"which  I  should  like  to  convey  to  one  of  the  commissioners,, 
the  one  whose  picture  I  pointed  out  to  you,  the  one  I  know. 
But  he  must  get  it  personally;  it  must  go  through  no  other 
hand." 

"I'll  get  it  to  him,"  Savitz  said. 

She  handed  him  a  small  envelope.  He  glimpsed  the  ad 
dress  and  gave  a  barely  perceptible  nod. 

"Do  you  want  the  newspaper?"  she  asked.  "Perhaps  the 
picture  will  help  you  identify  the  man?" 

Savitz  shook  his  head  negatively. 

"No  one  will  get  the  letter  except  Mr.  Evert,"  he  reas 
sured  her. 

Hilda  gave  him  a  confused  smile.  They  went  apart 
furtively,  each  aware  that  there  was  a  great  secret  between 
them. 

Late  that  evening,  after  the  last  of  Vulcan  City's  official 
visitors  to  the  government  representatives  had  departed,  and 
each  of  the  five  commissioners  had  retired  to  his  room, 
there  was  a  knock  at  Evert's  door. 


26o  THE   ROAD 

"A  man's  here  with  a  letter,"  the  hotel  attendant  an 
nounced.  "He  says  it's  urgent." 

"A  letter  to  the  commission?"  Mr.  Evert  queried. 

"No,  to  you  personally." 

He  reflected  an  instant.  It  was  possible  that  some  one 
on  the  strikers'  side  had  knowledge  of  him,  Evert,  of  his 
stand  on  labor  matters,  and  was  trying  to  get  some  infor 
mation  to  him. 

"Bring  him  up,"  he  said. 

A  minute  later  John  Savitz  entered.  Raymond  Evert  ad 
vanced  to  meet  him.  They  surveyed  each  other.  Mr. 
Evert  was  struck  by  the  honest,  boyish  face  of  the  man  be 
fore  him.  He  was  convinced  that  he  had  to  do  with  a  miner, 
some  one  from  the  strikers  with  important  information  prob 
ably. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  asked  extending  his  hand. 

For  answer  Savitz  handed  him  the  note. 

Evert  took  a  glance  at  the  plain  envelope.  The  handwrit 
ing  seemed  remotely  familiar.  It  was  not  a  business  letter. 
He  glanced  at  Savitz  quizzically. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  he  asked,  as  he  moved  nearer  to 
the  light.  Savitz  remained  standing. 

Evert  tore  the  envelope  open  slowly,  but  took  in  the  brief 
contents  of  the  page  at  a  glance.  Every  drop  of  blood  left 
his  cheeks. 

"Where  does  Hilda— Mrs.  Thorsen  live?"  he  finally  asked. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  caught  himself,  "the  address  is  right  here." 

He  perused  it,  repeated  the  number  of  the  house  and 
street  aloud  to  Savitz.  The  latter  affirmed  that  the  address 
was  correct. 


RAYMOND   EVERT   COMES        261 

Evert  inquired  how  one  was  to  get  to  the  place,  on  foot, 
and  Savitz  gave  him  explicit  instructions,  going  even  so  far 
as  to  tell  him  what  side  of  the  street  the  house  was  on,  and 
how  many  houses  it  was  from  the  corner.  ...  He  was  ap 
parently  making  certain  that  if  Evert  did  not  call,  it  should 
not  be  on  account  of  a  faulty  address  or  inadequate  direc 
tions. 

Evert  noticed  this. 

He  had  unconsciously  moved  back  and  was  supporting 
himself  with  his  hand  on  a  chair. 

"Won't  you  sit  down  a  moment?"  he  asked  again.  Savitz 
sat  down. 

"Are  you  related  to — Mrs.  Thorsen?"  Evert  asked  un 
steadily  as  if  feeling  his  way  about  in  the  dark. 

Savitz  said  that  they  were  not  related,  but  were  friends. 
Mrs.  Thorsen  and  her  boy  were  living  at  his  house,  with 
his  family.  They  had  been  living  with  him  ever  since  they 
came  from  New  York,  more  than  two  years  back. 

Evert  asked  what  Hilda's  work  was  with  the  union. 

"She's  pretty  nearly  everything,"  Savitz  said,  and  for  the 
first  time  during  the  conversation  a  smile  broke  upon  his 
face.  "She  manages  the  office,  but  she's  consulted  with  re 
gard  to  everything." 

Raymond  Evert  was  finding  breathing  difficult. 

"The  boy — ,"  he  finally  managed  to  speak  again,  "he — he 
must  be  quite  big.  .  .  ." 

"Little  Raymond,  you  mean?"  Savitz  queried,  and 
launched  into  a  description  of  the  child.  Yes,  Raymond 
was  big  for  his  age;  he  was  tall.  And  in  school  he  was  an 
exception,  a  sort  of  prodigy.  Only  in  his  ninth  year,  he  was 


262  THE   ROAD 

reading  like  a  man.  His  conversation,  too,  was  more  like 
that  of  a  grown  person  than  of  a  child. 

At  the  mention  of  the  child's  name  Evert's  chin  had 
dropped  and  his  mouth  remained  open  during  most  of 
Savitz's  little  speech,  as  if  he  were  unable  to  close  it.  There 
were  more  things  he  wished  to  ask,  but  he  felt  all  self- 
control  slipping  from  him. 

"I  am  very  grateful — to  Mrs.  Thorsen — and  to  yourself," 
he  said,  rising  from  his  chair  and  taking  a  step  forward. 

Savitz  also  rose  quickly. 

"I  have  the  address,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  the  table, 
where  Hilda's  letter  lay.  "I  have  the  address.  .  .  ." 

At  the  door  he  shook  hands  with  Savitz.  Evert's  hand 
was  cold  and  trembled  slightly. 


CHAPTER  XX 
GRAY  HAIR— GRAY  EYES 

WHEN  Savitz  was  out  of  the  room  Evert  went  back  to  the 
table  and  examined  Hilda's  note.  A  feeling  of  having 
reached  the  end  of  a  long  journey  came  over  him.  .  .  .  He 
had  for  years  given  up  the  idea  that  Hilda  was  dead.  The 
dead  are  forgotten  sooner  or  later,  and  he  never  forgot 
her.  .  .  . 

What  he  had  feared  during  these  years  was  that  time  had 
brought  her  low.  Girls  in  her  condition,  the  condition  he 
had  left  her  in,  invariably  sank.  His  social  work  had  im 
pressed  this  upon  him.  There  were  streets  in  Chicago  he 
avoided  passing  in  the  late  afternoon  or  at  night  for  fear 
that  he  might,  on  one  of  them,  meet  Hilda — Hilda  painted, 
Hilda  vulgar,  Hilda  in  the  gutter,  soiled  beyond  recogni 
tion,  degraded  beyond  help.  .  .  . 

He  studied  her  handwriting.  It  was  no  longer  the  girlish 
hand  he  had  once  known.  It  was  firm,  businesslike.  There 
was  precision  in  the  writing,  and  character, — the  handwrit 
ing  of  a  person  with  responsibilities.  A  sudden  pride  welled 
up  within  him,  pride  for  Hilda,  for  the  plucky  fight  she  had 
made  against  odds, — such  odds.  .  .  . 

The  pride  turned  to  pain;  a  pang  ran  through  him.  He 
had  been  thinking  of  Hilda  as  if  she  had  been  his,  or  at  any 

263 


264  THE   ROAD 

rate  one  very  near  to  him.  ...  He  had  been  admiring  her 
pluck  in  having  swerved  from  the  road  to  the  abyss.  Had 
he  forgotten  that  it  was  he  who  had  started  her  on  that 
road?  .  .  . 

He  had  not  forgotten.  ...  He  was  not  forgetting.  .  .  . 
He  realized  the  full  import  of  the  situation.  .  .  .  The 
finding  of  Hilda  signified  the  closing  of  one  chapter  in  his 
life.  It  also  meant  the  opening  of  another.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  . 
Now  that  he  had  found  her,  he  meant  ...  he  would.  .  .  . 

He  was  gasping  for  breath.  The  window  was  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  He  stepped  up  to  it,  raised  it,  pulled  the 
curtains  wide  apart,  and  a  flood  of  moonlight  poured  in. 

The  night  was  perfectly  still.  ...  It  was  a  stillness  Ray 
mond  Evert  had  not  yet  known,  the  stillness  of  night  in  the 
Far  West,  the  stillness  of  the  desert.  ...  It  was  not  of 
death  the  quiet  spoke,  but  of  life,  of  living.  .  .  .  Nature 
was  going  about  its  business,  in  her  own  serene,  dignified 
way.  .  .  . 

He  was  gazing  at  the  mountains  cloaked  in  gray  mist  and 
the  shadowy  giants  seemed  to  him  engrossed  in  deep  medi 
tation,  and  a  bit  frowning.  Was  it  the  town  which  had 
sprung  up  at  their  feet  that  annoyed  them?  Were  they 
frowning  at  the  people  intruding  upon  them,  disturbing  their 
calm, — the  people  who  were  digging  into  their  vitals,  ham 
mering  off  metal  crumbs  and  squabbling  over  them?  .  .  . 

He  took  in  the  city  with  his  gaze,  the  larger  buildings 
in  the  center,  the  smaller  houses  rising  out  of  the  ground 
like  mushrooms,  the  mills  further  away. 

A  strange  newness  lay  over  it  and  was  giving  it  a  phan- 
tastic,  almost  unreal  appearance.  It  was  as  if  the  city  was 


GRAY  HAIR  — GRAY  EYES        265 

but  a  toy  set  down  among  these  mountains  for  giant  chil 
dren  to  play  with. 

A  sense  of  smallness  came  over  Evert,  smallness  and  help 
lessness.  ...  He  was  thinking  of  the  trouble  between  the 
miners  and  the  mine  owners,  the  strike,  which  he  and  the 
other  commissioners  were  to  try  and  settle.  .  .  .  How  ab 
surdly  pitiful  these  quarrels  between  man  and  man  were. 
.  .  .  The  strike.  ...  Hilda  was  concerned  in  it.  .  .  . 
Hilda.  .  .  . 

His  thoughts  reverted  to  himself,  to  the  unexpected  situa 
tion.  It  was  scarcely  an  hour  since  he  had  learned  of  Hilda 
and  the  child,  and  already  his  past  had  released  its  grip  over 
him.  He  was  free.  .  .  .  Since  Hilda  had  disappeared  from 
his  horizon  he  had  not  shown  the  world  his  true  face.  He 
had  not  been  himself.  ...  He  had  done  what  others  wanted 
him  to  do.  At  first  it  was  his  father,  then  his  wife.  .  .  .  He 
had  worn  a  mask  all  these  years.  .  .  .  The  mask  was  off 
now.  .  .  . 

He  was  wondering  what  the  years  had  done  to  Hilda. 
Had  she  aged  much?  She  must  have.  And  her  mind,  her 
character — no  doubt  they  were  as  beautiful  as  ever.  She 
showed  such  restraint,  such  dignity  in  her  note  to  him.  ,  .  . 
"She  is  pretty  nearly  everything.  .  .  .  They  are  consulting 
her  about  everything."  With  what  admiration  the  miner, 
Savitz,  had  spoken  these  words.  .  .  .  How  much  she  must 
have  suffered  in  those  ten  years  before  she  compelled  people 
to  have  such  trust  in  her,  to  have  such  admiration  for 
her.  .  .  . 

The  last  lights  had  gone  out.  .  .  .  Vulcan  City  was  asleep. 
Raymond  was  now  gazing  in  the  direction  in  which  Savitz 


266  THE   ROAD 

had  said  his  home  lay,  where  Hilda  was  living.  There  was 
but  ten  minutes'  walk  between  himself  and  Hilda — and  the 
child.  .  .  ,  Within  ten  minutes'  walk  from  his  hotel  his  son 
was  asleep  now,  his  son  whom  he  had  never  seen.  The  child 
probably  never  suspected  that  he  had  a  father  living,  let 
alone  that  his  father  was  so  near. 

Questions  began  to  flash  through  his  brain.  What  if 
Hilda  should  refuse  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him?  She 
might.  What  if  she  should  refuse  to  let  him  see  the  child? 
She  had  every  right  to  do  so.  ...  It  was  she  who  had 
been  wronged.  It  was  he  who  had  wronged  her.  .  .  .  Yes, 
what  then? 

A  sudden  resolution  came  upon  him.  He  would  put  an 
end  to  that  ten  minutes'  distance  between  them.  He  would 
go  at  once  and  find  the  place  where  she  and  the  child  were 
living.  He  must  see  it  even  if  only  from  a  distance.  .  .  . 
He  must  have  a  look  at  the  house  where  the  child  lived, 
played,  dreamed,  at  once.  ...  He  got  into  his  long  black 
raincoat  and  went  down  into  the  street. 

The  directions  which  John  Savitz  had  given  him  were 
explicit  and  he  walked  in  accordance  with  them.  He  walked 
along  the  main  street  almost  to  its  very  end.  Houses  were 
fewer  here.  The  newness  of  the  city  extended  to  the  street 
signs.  They  were  clear  and  sharp.  He  read  them  easily. 
At  Needles  Avenue  he  stopped.  He  was  to  go  to  the  left. 
The  fifth  house  on  the  right  hand  side  of  the  street  was  the 
house  Hilda  lived  in.  ... 

For  a  moment  he  stood  still.  Was  it  all  a  dream?  Had 
he  been  dreaming?  He  felt  Hilda's  letter  in  his  pocket.  It 


GRAY   HAIR  — GRAY   EYES         267 

was  real.  .  .  .  The  fifth  house  from  the  corner.  He  started 
forward  with  beating  heart.  He  was  going  on  the  left  side 
of  the  street.  He  could  see  better  at  a  distance,  from  the 
opposite  side. 

The  house  stood  a  little  apart  from  the  others.  It  was 
bigger  and  in  somewhat  better  style.  ...  It  had  apparently 
been  built  as  a  home  by  some  one  and  was  now  rented  to  the 
miner,  to  Savitz.  .  .  .  There  was  a  tree  in  front  of  it.  It 
was  casting  a  shadow.  .  .  . 

He  stopped  and  was  looking  straight  at  the  simple  frame 
structure.  On  the  porch  some  one  was  sitting.  ...  A 
woman.  ...  A  white  dress  and  something  dark  over  the 
shoulders  and  chest.  .  .  .  The  figure  was  peering  at  him, 
too.  Another  instant — and  his  blood  stood  still.  ;  .  .  It 
was  Hilda.  .  .  .  He  had  recognized  her.  .  .  . 

The  woman  must  have  recognized  him  too,  for  she  rose 
as  if  lifted  out  of  her  chair,  and  stepped  into  the  house. 
The  lock  creaked  loudly  as  she  turned  it  in  the  door.  Evert's 
feet  refused  to  carry  him.  •.  .  . 

A  dog,  evidently  attracted  by  the  creak  of  the  lock,  came 
around  from  the  rear  of  the  house.  On  perceiving  a  man 
standing  across  the  street,  it  yelped  two  or  three  times. 
Then  apparently  concluding  that  the  stranger  was  not  dan 
gerous  and  was  not  worth  wasting  his  energy  on,  the  dog 
laid  down  in  the  middle  of  the  path  leading  to  the  house.  .  .  . 

He  started  back  for  the  hotel.  ...  In  his  room  Evert 
paced  the  floor  for  some  time.  Suddenly  things  began  to 
swim  before  his  eyes.  His  head  was  swimming.  .  .  .  The 
ground  seemed  to  be  swimming  out  from  under  his  feet. 


268  THE   ROAD 

He  caught  hold  of  the  bed  post,  leaned  against  it,  and  wept 
as  he  had  not  wept  since  he  was  a  child. 

Morning  was  breaking  when  Evert  finally  fell  asleep.  He 
woke  two  hours  later  and  sat  up  with  a  start.  There  was 
something  he  was  to  do.  ...  Something  vital,  urgent  that 
would  brook  no  delay.  .  .  .  Something.  ...  He  was  strain 
ing  his  thoughts  to  recall  what  it  was.  ...  It  had  been  so 
clear  to  him  just  before  he  opened  his  eyes,  but  was  snuffed 
out  like  a  candle  on  waking.  .  .  . 

He  could  not  recall  and  looked  about  in  a  daze.  .  .  .  Sud 
denly  his  eyes  fell  upon  his  hand — the  wedding  ring  on  it. 
...  It  had  been  there  five  years.  ...  He  took  it  off.  ... 

At  ten  o'clock  the  members  of  the  commission  went  to 
work  arranging  for  the  hearings.  .  .  .  People  were  already 
waiting  for  them,  from  the  mine  managers,  from  the  union. 
.  .  .  Raymond  Evert  studied  the  latter.  He  had  a  feel 
ing  of  personal  obligation  to  them.  .  .  .  They  were  Hilda's 
friends.  ...  It  was  among  them  that  she  and  the  child  had 
found  their  livelihood.  They  had  sheltered  and  protected 
her.  .  .  .  Good  people!  .  ..  . 

All  through  the  forenoon  it  seemed  to  him  that  Hilda 
must  come  in  any  minute.  ...  He  was  continually  gazing 
at  the  door  and  spots  of  red  suffused  themselves  over  his 
face  and  neck  every  time  it  opened. 

She  did  not  come. 

After  lunch  he  took  a  stroll  through  Vulcan  City's  main 
street.  Perhaps  he  would  meet  her  on  the  street.  .  .  .  Such 
accidents  happened  in  the  biggest  cities,  why  not  here?  .  .  . 


GRAY   HAIR  — GRAY   EYES         269 

But  it  did  not  happen.  Hilda  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
She  appeared  nowhere  the  rest  of  the  day. 

At  nightfall  he  slipped  out  of  the  hotel  and  started  for 
her  house. 

Savitz  met  him  at  the  door  and  led  him  into  the  living 
room.  Neither  Savitz  nor  Hilda  had  said  anything  about 
the  probability  of  Evert  coming  to  the  house,  but  both 
expected  him.  Hilda  was  awaiting  his  coming  in  her  room ; 
Savitz  at  the  window. 

It  was  the  miner's  effusiveness  as  host — an  effusiveness 
that  was  not  without  design — that  lightened  Hilda's  entry 
into  the  living  room,  and  made  it  easier  for  Evert  to  start 
forward  and  extend  his  hand  to  her  as  to  an  old  acquaint 
ance.  .  .  .  Savitz,  too,  was  taking  the  lead  in  the  conversa 
tion  in  these  first  few  moments  by  speaking  commonplaces 
about  the  long  journey  from  the  East,  about  Vulcan  City 
hotels,  as  compared  with  those  in  Chicago — he  had  been 
to  Chicago — and  about  the  coming  investigation  into  the 
miners'  troubles. 

As  soon  as  the  first  embarrassing  moments  were  over 
Savitz  excused  himself.  He  had  to  run  downtown  on  an  im 
portant  errand.  He  shook  hands  with  Raymond  Evert  cor 
dially  and  left  the  room. 

Evert  was  wondering  how  much  the  miner  might  know 
of  his  relations  with  Hilda.  Hilda,  on  the  other  hand,  felt 
that  Savitz  knew  all ;  had  guessed  everything.  .  .  .  She  was 
grateful  to  him  for  the  way  he  had  managed  things.  .  .  . 
A  mother  would  not  have  done  things  more  delicately  for 
her  daughter.  .  .  . 


270  THE   ROAD 

With  the  exit  of  the  miner  the  thread  of  conversation  was 
broken  between  them.  Neither  of  them  knew  how  to  begin 
to  talk  the  things  they  wished  to  say  to  one  another. 

Each  had  expected  to  find  the  other  different.  .  .  .  Ray 
mond's  picture  in  the  newspaper,  in  spite  of  the  stern  look 
it  had,  gave  no  clear  conception  of  his  age.  .  .  .  Hilda  had 
expected  to  find  him  younger  looking.  .  .  .  His  hair  was 
nearly  all  gray.  His  face  was  lined  as  she  had  never  seen 
it  lined  in  a  man  so  young.  .  .  .  There  was  not  a  trace 
of  cheerfulness  in  his  features. 

It  was  Hilda's  eyes  that  struck  Evert  above  everything 
else.  He  had  found  her  looking  much  better  than  he  had 
dared  dream.  She  showed  not  a  gray  hair  and  there  were 
no  glaring  wrinkles  in  her  face.  But  her  eyes, — her  eyes 
told  the  story  of  the  ten  years  they  had  been  apart.  All 
the  grayness,  despair,  and  helplessness  of  those  years  were 
settled  in  her  eyes. 

They  were  sitting  across  the  table  from  each  other.  .  .  . 
Both  felt  awkward  over  their  silence.  .  .  .  But  the  silence 
was  sweet.  ...  It  was  rest — the  rest  from  the  knife  which 
had  just  cut  a  wound  open.  .  .  . 

"Mama,"  a  child's  voice  rang  out,  the  door  flew  open, 
and  little  Raymond  landed  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

He  stood  still  where  he  was  and  gazed  at  the  man  who 
was  sitting  across  the  table  from  his  mother.  He  had  recog 
nized  Evert  from  the  picture  he  had  seen  in  the  paper.  .  .  . 
He  was  not  surprised,  as  if  he  had  been  expecting  to  see  the 
man.  .  .  . 

Evert  rose,  took  a  step  forward,  cleared  his  throat  as  if  to 
speak,  but  could  not,  and  extended  his  hand  silently  to  the 


GRAY   HAIR  — GRAY   EYES         271 

boy.  Little  Raymond  took  it.  Evert  held  his  hand  some 
what  longer  than  the  child  seemed  to  expect,  and  little  Ray 
mond  fixed  his  eyes  upon  him  shyly.  As  soon  as  his  hand 
was  free  he  quickly  sidled  up  to  his  mother.  She  put  her 
arm  about  him  while  he  rested  his  head  against  her  shoulder. 

Hilda  broke  the  silence.  She  felt  that  she  had  to  speak 
or  she  would  cry  out.  She  asked  about  Stillwell.  Had  Mr. 
Evert  been  to  Stilh^ll  lately? 

He  had.  Evert  had  been  visiting  the  town  quite  fre 
quently  in  the  past  eight  or  nine  years.  He  was  fond  of 
going  over  the  old  places.  He  was  telling  her  about  them. 

Evert  was  speaking  feverishly  and  was  speaking  with  his 
eyes  as  well  as  with  his  lips.  He  was  trying  to  convey 
things  to  Hilda,  the  things  that  were  not  easy  to  speak  of. 
...  He  was  trying  to  convey  to  her  that  he  had  been  going 
to  Stillwell  frequently,  had  been  hunting  out  the  old  scenes 
and  places  in  the  vain  hope  of  finding  a  trace  of  her.  .  .  . 
His  sentences  were  broken  and  incoherent.  Little  Raymond 
listened  and  looked  perplexed. 

In  recent  years,  Evert  added,  he  had  been  going  to  Still- 
well  for  another  reason.  His  father  was  buried  there.  Be 
fore  his  death  Henry  Evert  had  asked  to  be  buried  in  Still- 
well. 

The  mention  of  death  gave  Hilda  an  opportunity  to  heave 
a  sigh  which  had  been  choking  her. 

He  went  on  talking  about  Stillwell.  In  his  last  years  his 
father  had  lost  his  fondness  for  Chicago — his  mother  had 
never  liked  it — and  looked  back  longingly  upon  the  early, 
happier  period  of  his  life  in  the  Wisconsin  town.  .  .  .  Alto 
gether  his  father  had  changed  before  his  death.  One  could 


272  THE   ROAD 

reason  with  him  then  as  one  could  not  when  he  was  younger. 
...  He  had  suffered  much  in  his  last  years.  ...  He  had 
been  sick  nearly  all  the  time,  and  died  hard.  .  .  . 

The  conversation  turned  about  this  family  pivot  longer 
than  either  of  them  intended.  As  Hilda  listened  she  was 
thinking  that  Raymond's  voice  had  not  altered  as  much  as 
his  appearance.  It  was  the  same  voice*that  she  had  known. 
.  .  .  Soft  and  honest.  .  .  .  Only  deeper  and  more  vibrant. 
.  .  .  The  evidence  of  suffering  stood  out  here,  too.  .  .  . 

They  were  still  talking  of  Stillwell  and  the  past  when 
Savitz  returned.  Evert  could  not  protract  his  visit  any 
longer  and  rose  to  go.  With  Savitz  leading,  Hilda  and  the 
boy  followed  Evert  into  the  yard  and  to  the  gate.  It  was 
Savitz  who  asked  him  to  call  again,  Hilda  seconding  his 
invitation  somewhat  uncertainly.  .  .  .  Evert  shook  hands 
with  them.  Little  Raymond's  hand  he  took  last  and  again 
held  it  long.  .  .  .  His  voice  seemed  somewhat  throttled  as 
he  said  good  night  to  the  boy.  .  .  . 

Hilda  went  into  her  room  and  was  making  the  child's 
bed.  Little  Raymond  was  plying  her  with  questions.  She 
and  Evert  had  talked  about  things  which  he  had  never 
heard  her  speak  of  before.  .  .  .  He  wanted  to  know  about 
these,  and  about  Mr.  Evert;  who  he  was,  how  she  came  to 
know  him.  .  .  . 

Since  little  Raymond  was  an  infant  Hilda  had  been  pre 
paring  for  questions,  these  and  many  others.  .  .  .  And 
she  now  answered  them.  She  told  the  child  of  her  early  life, 


GRAY   HAIR  — GRAY   EYES         273 

her  parents,  her  childhood  in  Stillwell,  and  how  she  and 
Evert  were  playmates.  .  .  .  She  told  him  as  much  as  she 
thought  best  for  a  child  of  his  age  to  know. 

"Is  he  coming  again?"  Raymond  wanted  to  know,  as  he 
was  slipping  into  bed. 

"Why?"  Hilda  questioned  him  in  turn. 

"Because  I  would  like  to  see  him  again." 

"Would  you?" 

"Yes,  wouldn't  you?"  he  rejoined  quickly. 

Hilda  walked  off  without  answering  him.  She  took  a 
book  and  pretended  to  be  reading.  In  reality  she  was  think 
ing  about  the  child,  wondering  whether  the  presence  of 
Evert,  of  his  father,  had  in  any  way  communicated  itself 
to  him,  whether  he  had  sensed  it.  Little  Raymond  lay  in 
bed  quiet,  but  she  knew  he  was  not  sleeping.  Suddenly 
she  caught  his  eyes.  They  had  a  nervous  sparkle  and  were 
fixed  on  her. 

"Aren't  you  sleeping  yet?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  not  sleepy,"  he  answered. 

To  Hilda  there  suddenly  seemed  something  grown  up  in 
the  tone  of  his  voice.  It  sounded  like  that  of  a  man. 

She  walked  over  to  his  bed  and  tucked  the  quilt  closer 
about  him.  The  youngster  caught  hold  of  her  hand  and 
began  caressing  it.  He  pleaded  with  her  to  sit  down  on 
the  bed  beside  him,  and  she  did. 

"Mama,"  he  asked  with  a  quaver,  "why  did  my  father 
have  to  die  so  young?" 

"Come,  child,"  she  said,  her  own  voice  growing  husky, 
"you  are  asking  silly  questions.  Why  does  anybody  die? 
Death  comes  and  one  dies." 


274  THE    ROAD 

"Then  death  may  come  and  take  me  or  you,  too,  any 
time?" 

"Go  to  sleep,  child,"  Hilda  rose,  "you  must  not  think 
such  things.  It  is  late,  go  to  sleep." 

She  moved  away  and  began  to  undress.  The  boy  was 
still  gazing  at  her  with  his  flashing  eyes.  He  was  not  sat 
isfied  with  her  answers.  She  quickly  turned  the  light  out 
and  went  to  bed. 

More  than  an  hour  later,  when  Hilda  thought  him  asleep 
for  a  long  time,  he  called  again. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Mother,  what  makes  people's  faces  sad?" 

"Go  to  sleep,  child.  You  will  never  be  in  time  for  school 
to-morrow."  She  tried  to  make  her  voice  ring  severe. 

In  her  heart  she  was  pleased  with  the  child's  questioning. 
She  noticed  that  their  thoughts  seemed  to  be  running  parallel 
on  all  important  matters.  She;  too,  had  just  been  wondering 
why  E vert's  face  was  so  sad.  ...  It  was  not  a  passing 
sadness.  It  was  a  sadness  left  there  by  years  of  lonely, 
cheerless  living.  .  .  . 

Yes,  she  mused,  Raymond  was  unhappy.  .  .  .  How 
strangely  life  worked.  How  different  she  had  expected  their 
meeting  to  be.  ...  Their  roles  were  changed.  ...  It  was 
not  she,  but  Raymond  that  was  drifting  rudderless  through 
life.  .  .  . 

She  lay  awake  for  hours  thinking  of  the  past,  the  future. 

.  .  .  Raymond  would  come  again.  .  .  .  There  was  no  doubt 

in  her  mind  that  he  would.  .  .  .  He  would  not  let  her  go 

now  that  he  knew  where  to  find  her.  .  .  .  He  would  come. 

.  He  would  want — she  knew  what  he  would  want.  .  .  . 


GRAY   HAIR  — GRAY   EYES         275 

She  had  seen  him  gaze  at  the  child  all  evening,  hold  his 
little  hand.  .  .  . 

The  child  was  sleeping.  .  .  .  She  could  hear  his  even 
breathing.  ...  A  warmth  was  surging  through  her,  and  a 
happiness.  .  .  .  She  rose,  left  her  bed,  and  walked  over  to 
the  boy.  She  felt  his  head  and  face.  His  warm  breath 
touched  her  flesh.  .  .  .  She  passed  her  hand  gently  over 
the  entire  length  of  his  tall,  thin  frame.  The  tears  fell 
from  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

At  the  hotel  Raymond  Evert  was  in  the  midst  of  a  long 
letter  to  Hilda. 

What  he  could  not  speak  he  wrote.  ...  On  paper  he  went 
down  on  his  knees  to  her.  .  .  .  He  had  been  wrong,  wrong, 
wrong.  ...  He  had  had  no  character.  He  was  not  now 
trying  to  mitigate  this  wrong.  He  was  making  no  defense. 
.  .  .  But  he  had  paid  for  his  weakness.  ...  In  all  these 
years  she,  Hilda,  had  not  been  out  of  his  consciousness  for 
an  instant.  He  could  not  forget  her.  ...  He  did  not  try 
to  forget  her.  .  .  . 

And  Hilda  was  not  the  only  one  he  had  sinned  against. 
...  He  had  sinned  also  against  the  other  woman,  the 
one  he  called  his  wife.  For  though  he  lived  with  her  in 
wedlock,  his  soul  had  remained  unwedded.  .  .  .  He  had 
sinned  heinously  by  not  marrying  Hilda  whom  he  loved 
and  by  marrying  this  woman  whom  he  did  not  love.  .  .  . 

The  past  was  not  to  be  revoked.  .  .  .  But  the  future  was 
here  and  to  be  molded.  ...  He  would  mold  this  future 
on  a  foundation  of  truth — and  love.  .  .  .  Now  that  he  had 
found  her,  Hilda,  and  their  child,  he  would  institute  pro- 


276  THE    ROAD 

ceedings  for  a  separation  from  his  wife.  In  the  future  he, 
his  life  should  belong  to  her  and  to  their  child,  whether  she 
chose  to  accept  it  or  not.  .  .  . 

When  he  finished  his  letter  to  Hilda,  Raymond  Evert 
walked  over  to  the  window  and  gazed  for  some  time  in  the 
direction  of  the  Savitz  home.  Then  he  undressed,  went  to 
bed,  and  was  asleep  in  a  few  moments.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXI 
HILDA  CONTINUES  ALONE 

Ax  first  Evert  was  thinking  if  it  would  not  be  possible 
to  keep  Hilda  from  coming  before  the  commission.  Upon 
consideration,  however,  he  changed  his  mind  and  decided 
not  to  interfere,  but  to  let  the  union  go  through  with  its 
program,  which  had  assigned  to  Hilda  a  leading  part  in 
its  testimony. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  she  entered  the  room 
in  which  the  hearings  were  held.  Evert  had  not  seen  Hilda 
since  meeting  her  at  the  Savitz  home.  The  letter  he  had 
dispatched  to  her  the  following  morning.  She  had  had 
twenty-four  hours  to  think  about  it. 

He  had  been  waiting  for  her,  and  as  soon  as  Hilda 
entered  he  walked  over  and  they  shook  hands.  He  had 
hoped  for  a  gaze,  or  a  gesture  which  he  could  take  as  an 
answer  to  his  letter,  but  there  was  none.  Her  greeting 
was  formal;  there  was  no  warmth  in  it.  She  was  polite 
and  restrained. 

Hilda  was  pale  and  her  eyes  were  tired  as  if  from  lack 
of  sleep.  It  may  have  been  the  testimony  which  she  was 
to  give  before  the  commission  that  had  kept  her  awake, 
Evert  was  musing,  but  it  may  also  have  been  his  letter. 
He  had  hoped  for  a  different  effect.  .  .  . 

277 


278  THE   ROAD 

Two  members  of  the  commission  approached  and  Evert 
introduced  Hilda  to  them  as  an  acquaintance  from  the 
East.  One  of  the  commissioners  was  from  New  York  and 
he  inquired  what  organizations  she  had  been  associated 
with  there.  Hilda  named  the  Waist  Workers*  Union  and 
the  Shop  Safety  Committee.  The  commissioner,  it  turned 
out,  knew  Dr.  Baum  of  the  committee;  of  Mr.  Raboff  he 
had  heard.  He  at  once  put  Hilda  on  a  basis  of  equality 
with  himself  and  the  commission.  .  .  . 

The  taking  of  testimony  began. 

The  lawyer  for  the  union  was  insistent  on  bringing  out 
Hilda's  previous  experience  and  connection  with  the  labor 
movement  in  New  York.  It  would  add  to  her  prestige 
and  strengthen  her  testimony.  He  drew  from  her  the  story 
of  the  Princess  Waist  factory  fire,  the  friend  she  had  lost, 
her  own  narrow  escape,  and  her  subsequent  share  in  the 
work  of  making  the  factories  of  New  York  safe. 

Hilda  gave  her  testimony  quietly,  adequately,  but  with 
reserve,  and  not  too  eagerly.  She  was  not  striving  for 
effect.  She  spoke  simply,  used  no  invectives,  showed  no 
bitterness.  .  .  . 

She  seemed  relieved  when  the  personal  angle  of  her  testi 
mony  was  over  with,  and  she  came  to  the  part  dealing 
with  the  situation  in  Vulcan  City,  the  lives  of  the  miners, 
the  conditions  in  their  homes.  .  .  .  She  told  of  the  relief 
work  she  had  been  conducting  for  the  miners'  organization. 
She  consulted  her  papers  and  recited  facts  and  figures. 

She  was  on  the  stand  for  three  hours.  From  time  to 
time  one  or  another  of  the  commissioners  would  ask  her 
to  repeat  certain  figures  or  to  recapitulate  certain  state- 


HILDA   CONTINUES   ALONE      279 

merits.  There  were  no  other  interruptions.  Her  testi 
mony  was  coming  down  steadily  like  a  quiet  rain  and 
every  one  was  listening  attentively. 

Hilda  made  a  conscious  effort  not  to  look  at  Evert. 
Now  and  then,  however,  their  eyes  met,  and  each  time 
Hilda  bent  hers  a  little  lower.  She  was  conscious  that 
Raymond  was  not  listening  to  her  testimony,  but  to  her 
voice.  .  .  . 

He  was.  Hilda's  testimony  had  become  to  Evert  not 
the  story  of  the  miners,  of  the  injustices  done  to  them> 
but  her  own  story,  a  recital  of  the  wrongs  and  injustices 
life — no,  not  life,  but  he,  Raymond  Evert,  had  dealt 
her.  .  .  .  The  ten  years  in  which  Hilda  had  braved  the 
world  not  only  alone  and  unaided,  but  with  the  crushing 
handicap  of  unmarried  motherhood  weighing  her  down, 
lay  before  him  like  an  open  book. 

The  deep,  unfathomable  grayness  in  her  eyes,  which 
he  had  noticed  the  moment  he  saw  her  at  the  Savitz  home, 
and  which  haunted  him  since,  was  now  clear  to  him.  .  .  . 
Death  had  put  it  there,  the  struggle  against  death  in  the 
Princess  fire,  the  daily  struggle  against  death  and  disgrace 
during  those  ten  terrible  years.  .  .  . 

He  was  planning  to  get  to  her,  to  speak  to  her,  directly 
the  session  was  over,  but  could  not  disengage  himself  on 
the  instant.  When  finally  he  was  free,  he  walked  over  to 
the  group  of  miners  who  had  surrounded  Hilda  as  soon  as 
she  left  the  witness  chair,  but  she  was  not  among  them. 
He  stepped  out  into  the  hall,  but  there,  too,  she  was  not 
to  be  seen.  While  searching  for  her  he  came  upon  Savitz, 
and  the  latter  told  him  that  Hilda  had  gone  home.  She 


280  THE   ROAD 

had  barely  closed  her  eyes  the  night  before  and  she  was 
tired. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  see  her  that  evening,  but  the 
following  morning,  just  before  the  session  of  the  commis 
sion  opened,  they  met  again.  There  was  a  strained,  timid 
expression  in  Hilda's  face  as  she  answered  his  greeting.  He 
inquired  when  he  might  see  her. 

"Can  you  come  Sunday  morning?"  she  asked. 

She  was  facing  him,  but  avoided  his  gaze. 

Sunday  was  two  days  off.  He  had  wished  to  see  her 
sooner.  But  he  agreed  to  Sunday. 

Hilda  left  him  and  a  moment  later  Evert  saw  her  in 
thoughtful  conversation  with  the  union's  lawyer,  and  with 
the  man  who  was  to  be  the  next  witness  for  the  miners. 

He  started  for  the  commissioners'  table,  dragging  his 
feet  heavily.  Things  were  growing  misty  before  his  eyes. 
He  had  a  feeling  of  having  received  bad  news.  .  .  . 


He  called  a  little  before  nine  o'clock,  but  Hilda  was 
already  in  the  yard  waiting  for  him.  Little  Raymond  came 
up,  greeted  Evert  shyly,  and  walked  off  again.  The  child's 
greeting  and  his  hasty  departure  were  prearranged  by  Hilda. 
She  had  told  the  boy  that  she  wished  to  spend  the  morn 
ing  with  Mr.  Evert  undisturbed. 

A  short  distance  from  the  Savitz  home  was  country,  the 
valley  on  one  side,  the  mountains  on  the  other.  A  few 
scattered  houses  were  stuck  in  the  mountain  side.  Past 
these  a  road  was  winding  its  way  up.  Hilda  and  Raymond 
Evert  were  both  looking  at  the  road. 


HILDA   CONTINUES   ALONE      281 

"Shall  we  go?"  she  suggested. 

He  assented  hastily. 

As  they  were  leaving  the  yard  of  the  Savitz  home  Evert 
glanced  about  for  little  Raymond,  but  the  child  had  dis 
appeared. 

They  were  walking  in  silence.  The  air  was  as  mild  and 
sweet  as  the  breath  of  a  babe.  Raymond  Evert  was  on 
the  verge  of  tears.  He  was  thinking  of  the  past,  the  years 
of  suffering  that  lay  between  him  and  Hilda.  ...  If  there 
were  only  a  way  of  obliterating  these  years!  If  he  could 
but  walk  with  Hilda  under  the  tender  Arizona  sky  as  they 
were  once  wont  to  walk,  with  no  clouds  between  them, 
no  problems  to  settle,  with  complete  absorption  in  one 
another.  .  .  . 

But  that  could  not  be.  He  and  Hilda  had  been  walk 
ing  side  by  side  for  ten  minutes  or  so,  and  never  once  had 
their  shoulders  touched.  .  .  .  He  was  gazing  at  her  from 
time  to  time.  Her  face  was  tense  and  from  under  her 
tired  lashes  her  eyes  were  looking  straight  ahead  of  her. 
The  walk  distinctly  was  no  pleasure  to  Hilda.  .  .  It  was 
an  ordeal  to  her.  ...  It  was  so  to  him  also.  If  he  could 
but  fall  at  her  feet,  embrace  her  knees  and  weep.  But  he 
could  not.  .  .  .  The  past  could  not  be  conjured  up.  Her 
look,  her  carriage  were  too  forbidding.  .  .  .  She  would  make 
him  talk,  say  things.  What  had  he  to  say? 

She  turned  from  the  main  road  and  in  a  short  time  the 
town  was  lost  to  view.  She  was  apparently  familiar  with 
the  spot,  for  she  led  him  up  to  where  there  was  a  large 
bench-like  stone.  She  sat  down  and  was  waiting  for  him 
to  speak.  He  finally  did. 


282  THE    ROAD 

He  asked  whether  she  had  received  his  letter. 

She  had. 

There  was  a  pause  and  then  he  resumed,  his  voice  gaining 
in  firmness  as  he  spoke.  He  was  repeating  to  her  that 
which  he  had  said  in  his  letter,  and  more.  He  was  telling 
her  of  his  vain  searchings  for  her,  of  the  dark  and  lonely 
years  he  had  spent,  how  often  he  had  wished  himself  dead 
— had  been  planning  death.  .  .  .  But  now  that  he  found 
her  everything  must  change.  It  was  changed  as  far  as  he 
was  concerned.  He  had  already  broken  with  the  past. 
He  was  taking  steps  with  regard  to  a  divorce.  .  .  .  His  life 
henceforward  would  be  devoted  to  those  he  loved — to  her,  to 
"their"  child.  .  .  . 

Hilda  listened  with  averted  face.  What  he  was  saying 
was  exactly  what  she  had  been  expecting  to  hear  from 
him  the  moment  she  saw  him,  saw  his  face,  his  eyes,  his 
untimely  gray  hair.  ...  It  was  no  surprise  to  her.  .  .  . 
His  letter  had  been  no  surprise.  But  it  was  useless.  .  .  . 
His  words,  his  sentiments,  his  offers  were  coming  too  late. 
.  .  .  Whatever  it  was  that  had  separated  them  ten  years 
back,  a  real  gulf  was  between  them  now.  .  .  . 

Raymond  ceased  speaking  and  was  waiting  for  a  word 
from  her.  She  turned  her  face  upon  him.  The  melancholy 
grayness  in  her  eyes  was  deeper  than  ever.  His  blood 
stood  still.  He  was  reading  his  verdict  in  those  eyes.  .  .  . 
She  would  never  link  her  life  with  his. 

"I  know,"  he  was  mumbling,  "it  is  hard  for  you  to  forget 
all  that  you  have  suffered.  It  is  hard  for  you  to  forgive 
all  that  I  have  done  to  you — " 

"I  have  forgiven  you."    Hilda  finally  broke  her  silence. 


HILDA    CONTINUES   ALONE      283 

"Since  I  saw  you  I  have  forgiven  you.  But  what  you  say 
cannot  be.  .  .  ." 

"Why  not?"  He  grasped  at  her  words  as  a  drowning 
man  grasps  at  a  straw.  "I  don't  ask  you  to  unite  your 
life  with  mine  at  once.  I'll  give  you  time.  ...  I  can  wait 
until  your  feelings  towards  me  are  once  more  what  they 
had  been,  until — " 

"That  will  never  be,"  she  interrupted  him.  But  Evert 
pleaded  again: 

"Time,  give  yourself  time.  .  .  ." 

"No — it  can't  be,"  Hilda  repeated  with  a  deep  sigh,  "be 
cause  I'm  not  what  I  was  ten  years  ago.  ..." 

"Yes,  I  know."  Evert  spoke  enthusiastically.  "You've 
grown  wonderfully.  .  .  .  You've  made  a  place  for  yourself 
in  the  world.  You  are  now  a — " 

"Is  that  the  only  change  you  see  in  me?"  She  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  him  with  an  enigmatic  look. 

Into  Evert's  bloodless  features  came  a  puzzled  expres 
sion.  He  did  not  know  how  to  take  her  gaze.  He  was 
pained.  Hilda  looked  up  from  his  face  to  his  gray  head 
and  decided  to  make  an  end  of  things  as  quickly  as  pos 
sible.  She  was  sorry  for  him. 

"Raymond,"  she  said,  using  his  Christian  name  for  the 
first  time,  "there  are  more  changes  in  me  than  can  be 
seen  on  the  surface.  .  .  ." 

She  stopped.  Now  she  was  having  difficulty  in  explain 
ing  herself.  Finally  she  resumed: 

"If  you'd  come  earlier,  I  don't  know  how  many  years 
back,  but  earlier,  everything  might've  been  different.  Then 
the  life  you  speak  of,  love,  marriage,  a  home,  might  still 


284  THE   ROAD 

have  had  charm  for  me.  .  .  .  Then  I  was  not  so  much, 
and  so  definitely  at  war  with  the  world,  with  society,  with 
our  civilization.  .  .  .  It's  different  now.  Now  I  am  lost 
to  that  life.  I  know  only'  two  loves  now:  one  is  for  my 
child,  the  other  for  the  rest  of  the  world — for  those  who 
suffer  in  it.  ...  I  am  unfit  for  family  life." 

"You  are  not,"  Raymond  cried  ardently.    "Time — " 

Hilda  motioned  to  him  not  to  interrupt  her.  Her  speech 
had  come  to  her  only  after  great  effort  and  she  wished 
to  be  over  with  it.  She  continued: 

"For  years  after  you  left  me,  after  I  left  Chicago,  I 
thought  of  my  misfortune  only  in  terms  of  myself.  'Twas 
my  life  that  was  ruined,  my  blood  was  crying  for  revenge, 
for  justice.  .  .  .  'Twas  a  personal  issue  between  me  and 
you.  But  the  years  have  changed  this.  The  wrong  done 
to  me  has  fused  itself  with  the  wrongs  done  to  others, 
millions  of  others.  Millions  of  working  women  are  wronged 
and  exploited  to-day.  They  are  exploited  in  factories. 
They  are  exploited  in  shops  and  offices.  They  are  ex 
ploited  for  their  work  and  they  are  exploited  for  their 
beauty.  .  .  .  There's  no  reason  why  I  should  be  the  only 
one  to  receive  compensation,  as  it  were,  for  my  suffering, 
why  my  life  alone  should  be  sweetened  by  ease  and  com 
fort.  .  .  ." 

"I  understand,"  Raymond  spoke  up  warmly,  "you  are 
a  socialist.  I  saw  it  from  your  testimony  the  other  day, 
the  way  you  put  things.  .  .  .  But  I  will  not  interfere  with 
your  ideals,  with  your  beliefs.  I'll  not  be  a  hindrance  in 
your  work.  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  there  was  a  faint  ring 
of  magnanimity  in  his  voice,  "as  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm 


HILDA   CONTINUES   ALONE      285 

myself  sympathetic  with  the  working  people.  Very  sym 
pathetic.  .  .  .  Indeed  I  have  .  ,  ." 

Hilda  had  averted  her  face  to  hide  the  expression  of 
pain  that  had  come  into  it.  If  Raymond  had  only  not  made 
this  last  remark.  .  .  .  Every  word  of  it  widened  the  gulf 
between  them.  .  .  . 

His  phrase  "sympathetic  with  the  working  people"  and 
the  manner  in  which  it  was  spoken  recalled  to  Hilda  vividly 
her  year  in  the  cooperative  apartment  with  the  rich  college 
girls  and  their  dawdling  friends.  They  too  spoke  with 
the  same  benign  condescension,  used  the  same  vapid  jargon. 
.  .  .  Those  men  and  women,  too,  were  "sympathetic  with 
the  working  people."  It  was  their  stock  in  trade — this  sym 
pathy  with  the  people.  It  fed  their  vanity  and  gave  them 
a  sense  of  being  superior.  .  .  . 

"Poor,  weak  little  aristocrats,"  she  mused,  as  she  recalled 
these  acquaintances,  and  mentally  she  classed  Raymond 
Evert  with  them.  .  .  . 

He  was  repeating  to  her  about  his  having  no  desire  to 
interfere  with  her  beliefs,  but  Hilda  cut  him  short. 

"It's  not  the  things  I  believe  in  that  matter,"  she  said, 
"it's  the  things  I  don't  believe  in.  I  don't  believe  in  the 
life  that  you  propose  to  me.  I  am  not  telling  others  what 
they  should  do  or  should  not  do,  but  I  don't  believe  in  it 
for  myself.  What  you  propose  is  to  take  me  into  the  class 
of  the  privileged,  and  I  am  the  sworn  opponent  of  this 
class.  I  am  an  enemy  of  all  privileges.  The  struggle 
against  privileges  and  the  privileged,  the  war  on  the  pres 
ent  civilization  and  for  a  new  order  of  things,  fills  out  my 
life  to-day  as  marriage  might  have  filled  it  out,  had  I 


286  THE    ROAD 

not  known  these  ideas,  had  not  injustice,  suffering,  despair 
opened  my  eyes  to  them." 

"You  mean,"  Evert  was  groping  for  words,  ''that  your 
ideas,  your  work  in  behalf  of — of  the  masses  leaves  you  no 
room  for  marriage,  for  a  family  life?  .  .  .  " 

"Yes."  Hilda  smiled  sadly.  "That's  how  things  worked 
out  in  my  case.  I'm  a  sort  of  a  nun  worshiping  in  the 
invisible  temple  of  a  new  faith.  .  .  ." 

"Hilda!" 

He  had  risen  from  the  stone  upon  which  they  had  been 
sitting  and  was  standing  straight  in  front  of  her. 

"Hilda,"  he  mumbled,  "but  the  child?  .  .  .  Don't  you 
want  to  give  him  a  name, — his  name — standing?" 

She  jumped  up  as  if  a  stab  had  been  aimed  at  her  and 
she  had  averted  it. 

"He  has  a  name!"  Her  words  rang  out  shrilly  and  her 
eyes  were  flashing.  "He  has  a  name — my  name.  And  he 
has  standing — the  standing  of  being  my  son.  ...  It  may 
not  be  the  proper  standing  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  and  of 
society  to-day.  But  I  don't  believe  in  that  law  and  in 
that  society.  .  .  .  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  is  founded 
on  right  and  justice.  ...  I  despise  them  both! 

"Name,  standing,"  she  continued,  "the  words  that  you 
have  been  using  here,  the  conceptions  you  have  been  in 
voking,  belong  to  the  past.  ...  By  the  time  my  little  son 
is  a  man  these  conceptions  will  be  dead.  Woman's  right 
to  motherhood  will  be  a  question  of  love,  a  question  to  be 
decided  by  herself  and  not  by  a  priest's  blessing  or  by  a 
husband's  brute  instinct.  ...  All  life  will  be  sacred." 

Raymond  stood  aghast  not  at  Hilda's  words,  but  at  his 


HILDA   CONTINUES   ALONE      287 

own  helplessness.  He  was  involving  himself  deeper  and 
deeper,  and  getting  more  and  more  away  from  the  point 
to  which  he  was  trying  to  bring  Hilda  around.  .  .  . 

"Think  of  the  advantages  to  the  child."  He  floundered 
about  for  something  to  say. 

"Material  advantages,"  he  corrected  himself,  thinking 
he  was  strengthening  his  plea. 

"I  don't  want  any  advantages  for  him,"  Hilda  spoke 
stubbornly.  "Advantages  for  one  imply  disadvantages  for 
another.  Why  should  my  child  have  advantages  which 
millions  of  children  of  the  working  class  do  not  have? 
Advantages  for  a  few  hundred  thousand  men,  women  and 
children, — privileges  for  a  limited  class, — that  is  the  curse 
of  our  civilization.  It  is  the  rock  against  which  capitalist 
society  will  finally  be  dashed  to  pieces.  ...  It  is  in  order 
to  give  advantages  to  a  score  or  two  of  sons  and  daughters 
of  our  so-called  best  families  in  New  York  and  Boston 
that  the  miners  in  Vulcan  City,  their  wives  and  children 
are  kept  in  a  state  of  semi-servitude." 

Hilda  had  completely  lost  all  control  over  herself.  .  .  . 

"Advantages!"  she  snarled.  "You  have  had  advantages 
and  what  did  you  do  with  them?  ...  If  you  had  not  had 
advantages,  and  had  not  sought  more  advantages,  an  ad 
vantageous  marriage,  an  advantageous  position  in  'society,' 
you  would  not  have  left  me  when  you  did,  and  as  you  did. 
.  .  .  You  loved  me  then  and  you  would  have  married  me, 
and  my  child  would  not  now  be  suffering  from  disadvantages. 
.  .  .  You  would  not  be  trying  to  atone  now  for  wrongs 
you  should  not  have  committed.  .  .  .  Advantages.  .  .  . 
Don't  mention  them  to  me,  I  don't  want  them.  .  .  ." 


288  THE   ROAD 

The  sound  of  her  own  voice  sobered  Hilda.  .  .  .  She  was 
sorry.  .  .  .  She  could  not  understand  how  she  had  lost  her 
mastery  over  herself,  her  feelings.  ...  An  outbreak  such 
as  this  was  the  one  thing  she  had  been  guarding  against, 
the  one  thing  she  was  determined  not  to  let  happen.  .  .  . 

She  started  back  for  the  city.  For  some  minutes  she  ran 
ahead  of  Raymond.  She  was  trying  to  compose  herself. 
When  she  had  calmed  down  she  waited  for  him  to  join 
her  and  began  speaking  to  him  once  more  quietly,  but 
firmly. 

"As  Fve  told  you  already,"  she  was  saying,  "I'm  har 
boring  no  ill-will  against  you.  But  marriage  and  family 
life  between  you  and  me  are  out  of  the  question.  I  can't 
think  of  it  now — never.  ...  I  must  go  on  with  my  work. 
It's  best  for  me,  for  the  child.  .  .  .  Don't  worry  about 
him.  ...  I  shall  raise  him  to  be  a  good  man.  .  .  . 

"I'm  glad  I  saw  you,"  she  continued,  after  catching  her 
breath.  "I've  been  wanting  to  see  you.  I  wanted  to  have 
things  clear  between  us.  They  are  so  now.  I'm  not  inter 
fering  with  your  life,  and  I  want  to  ask  the  same  of  you. 
.  .  .  Leave  us  alone.  .  .  .  I've  told  the  child  certain  things 
concerning  his  parentage  and  I  don't  want  to  deviate  from 
them  now.  I  don't  want  to  change  them.  There's  no  use 
beclouding  his  little  head.  .  .  .  I've  told  him  that  his 
father  is  dead.  .  .  .  Well,  let  the  myth  of  death  be  a  reality 
to  him.  .  .  ." 

They  were  going  downhill  and  Hilda  was  walking  fast 
deliberately.  She  was  all  unstrung,  and  wanted  to  get  home 
and  rest.  Evert  followed  her,  speechless,  dazed.  .  .  . 

When  they  reached  the  corner  where  she  was  to  turn 


HILDA   CONTINUES   ALONE      289 

off  to  the  house,  Hilda  extended  her  hand  to  him.  .  .  .  Her 
eyes  were  pleading  with  him  to  spare  her  the  ordeal  of 
another  meeting  with  the  child  that  day.  .  .  .  Raymond 
cast  a  sad  look  at  the  Savitz  home,  which  was  less  than  a 
hundred  feet  away.  .  .  .  His  eyes  filled.  He  shook  her 
hand  and  walked  away  rapidly.  ,  .  . 

The  newspapers  the  following  morning  announced  that 
the  commission  would  finish  its  investigation  on  Tuesday 
and  would  leave  Vulcan  City  on  Wednesday.  Late  that 
afternoon,  just  as  Evert  stepped  into  the  hotel,  Savitz  met 
him  and  handed  him  a  note  from  Hilda. 

"I  cannot  stand  the  strain  of  another  meeting,"  she  wrote, 
"and  we  are  leaving  town  for  a  few  days.  Please  do  not 
make  any  efforts  to  locate  us.  It  is  no  use.  I  harbor  no 
ill-will  against  you.  Good-by." 


CHAPTER   XXII 
DEATH 

HILDA  returned  with  the  child  two  days  after  the  com 
mission  had  left  Vulcan  City.  A  letter  from  Evert  was 
waiting  for  her:  It  was  a  reply  to  her  farewell  note,  not 
very  long,  and  bore  evidence  of  how  completely  crushed 
he  was  by  her,  writing  and  actions. 

He  had  hoped  to  see  her  and  the  child  before  leaving, 
Evert  wrote.  He  would  not  have  intruded  his  presence  too 
long  on  them.  .  .  .  However,  the  thing  was  not  to  be  and 
he  bowed  to  her  dictates.  .  .  .  She  was  in  the  right,  he  in 
the  wrong.  ...  If  all  she  wanted  of  him  was  the  assur 
ance  of  not  being  importuned,  of  being  left  alone  and  un 
disturbed — if  that  was  all  she  would  accept  of  him,  he 
wished  her  to  have  this  assurance.  ...  He  would  not  bur 
den  her  with  protestations  of  interest  in  herself  and  the 
child — though,  of  course,  he  would  continue  to  have  that 
interest  and  love  for  them  always.  .  .  . 

Hilda  read  and  reread  the  letter  many  times  that  after 
noon  and  evening.  .  .  .  She  was  glad  Raymond  had  writ 
ten.  ...  It  would  have  grieved  her  if  he  had  departed  from 
Vulcan  City  wfthout  a  farewell  line  to  her,  to  them.  .  .  . 

At  the  same  time  the  letter  also  gave  her  a  feeling  of 
finality.  ...  It  was  like  a  certificate  of  death,  of  burial. 
.  .  .  The  past  was  dead.  .  .  .  She  was  a  new  person.  .  .  . 

290 


DEATH  291 

Her  account  with  Evert  was  closed.  .  .  .  She  was  free.  .  .  . 

She  went  to  bed  thinking  about  the  future,  planning. 
.  .  .  There  were  new  signs  on  the  horizon.  .  .  .  When  she 
left  New  York,  the  roar  of  war  had  stifled  the  cry  of  revolt 
everywhere.  Now  the  rumblings  of  revolution  were  rising 
above  the  din  of  cannons.  ...  In  Russia  the  autocracy  had 
fallen,  and  "the  first  outposts  of  the  social  revolution"  had 
taken  up  their  positions.  .  .  .  The  socialistic  elements  were 
everywhere  raising  their  heads.  .  .  .  There  was  no  time 
to  lose.  .  .  .  She  must  try  to  find  a  place  among  them.  .  .  . 

She  fell  asleep  with  visions  of  red  flags  and  barricades 
shifting  before  her  eyes,  but  she  was  dreaming  of  Raymond 
and  Stillwell.  .  .  .  She  dreamed  that  Raymond  was  dead 
many,  many  years,  that  she  was  herself  old  and  bent,  and 
that  the  letter  was  the  only  relic  she  had  of  him.  .  .  . 

When  she  woke  in  the  morning  Savitz  had  already  left 
the  house.  He  had  gone  to  work.  The  day  after  the  com 
mission  left  town,  operations  in  the  mines  were  resumed, 
both  sides  agreeing  to  abide  by  the  decision  which  the 
commission,  the  government,  would  reach.  .  .  . 

From  the  morning  paper  which  she  was  reading  Hilda 
had  learned  that  the  town  had  again  resumed  its  normal 
life  and  appearance.  The  workingmen  had  disappeared 
from  the  streets  and  were  once  more  busy  drilling  down 
into  the  cavities  of  the  earth.  .  .  .  The  score  of  correspond 
ents  from  the  East  had  left  on  the  same  train  with  the 
commission  and  Vulcan  City  would  cease  to  furnish  sensa 
tional  headlines  for  the  newspapers  of  the  country.  .  .  . 

Hilda  was  sipping  her  coffee  and  gazing  thoughtfully  at 


292  THE    ROAD 

little  Raymond.  The  child's  face,  too,  was  sober.  He  was 
meditating  on  something. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  back  to  New  York?"  she  asked. 

Raymond's  eyes  lit  up  with  pleasure. 

"Yes,  mother,"  he  said,  "if  you  wish  to  go  back." 

"If  you  wish,"  "if  you  say  so," — little  Raymond  now 
modified  everything  he  asked  with  some  such  phrase.  .  .  . 
He  was  now  always  thinking  of  his  mother  first,  worrying 
about  her,  as  if  he  were  the  grown-up,  the  parent,  and  she 
the  child.  ...  It  was  a  habit  he  had  acquired  since  he  had 
begun  to  be  apprehensive  for  his  mother's  safety,  and  lay 
awake  half  the  nights  fearing  lest  the  authorities  break 
into  their  home  and  arrest  her  and  take  her  from  him. 

Hilda  was  aware  of  her  son's  feelings,  of  his  fears  for 
her,  and  it  pained  her.  It  was  too  soon  for  the  child  to 
be  steeped  in  such  tragic  thoughts.  .  .  . 

"Will  you  be  happier  in  New  York?"  she  asked.  She 
was  conscious  that  she  had  put  the  question  too  maturely 
for  the  child.  Little  Raymond,  however,  took  the  ques 
tion  quite  naturally,  as  if  happiness  was  a  thing  he  was 
accustomed  to  think  about,  to  discuss. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  shall  be  happier  there.  We  shall  be 
safer." 

"It  is  my  birthplace,"  he  added  after  a  little.  There  was 
a  dreamy  look  in  his  eyes.  ...  He  was  recalling  a  story 
he  had  read  in  which  men  loved  their  birthplace  and  longed 
to  return  to  it.  ... 

The  union  heads  at  first  attempted  to  persuade  Hilda 
to  remain  in  the  West,  but  when  they  found  her  insistent 


DEATH  293 

on  going  they  asked  her  to  stay  over  until  the  middle  of 
December.  There  was  some  work  they  were  anxious  to 
have  her  do  for  the  organization. 

There  was  no  particular  hurry  about  getting  to  New 
York.  Hilda  was  not  going  to  anything  definite  and  it 
might  as  well  be  in  December  as  in  October,  she  figured, 
and  agreed  to  stay. 

The  approaching  return  to  the  East  had  brought  little 
Raymond,  who  always  got  on  well  with  his  teachers,  in  still 
closer  touch  with  them.  Both  teachers,  the  one  in  whose 
class  he  was,  and  the  one  whose  class  he  had  just  left,  were 
girls  in  the  twenties.  New  York  to  them  was  a  mystery 
and  a  dream.  Little  Raymond  had  been  to  New  York, 
had  seen  it,  and  was  now  going  back  to  it.  ...  After 
school,  or  at  recess,  the  one  or  the  other  of  them  would 
stop  to  talk  to  him  about  his  approaching  journey.  They 
would  ask  him  to  tell  all  he  remembered  of  New  York. 

"You  must  be  sure  and  write  to  us,"  the  teachers  once 
told  him  in  one  voice,  "and  some  day  we  shall  come  to 
New  York  and  visit  you." 

Raymond  was  proud  and  happy  over  the  attentions  his 
teachers  were  bestowing  upon  him.  The  two  months  pre 
ceding  his  journey  were  the  two  happiest  months  in  his 
life. 

Hilda  had  left  the  office  and  was  in  the  midst  of  prepa 
rations  for  the  trip  when  a  letter  arrived  from  Raymond. 
It  was  formal,  brief  and  to  the  point. 

He  was  leaving  for  France  in  a  few  days,  he  wrote,  hav 
ing  volunteered  for  the  war,  and  he  wished  to  inform  her 


294  THE   ROAD 

of  certain  provisions  he  had  made,  which  concerned  the 
child  and  herself.  He  had  settled  an  allowance  upon  the 
boy  which  would  see  him  through  with  his  education,  the 
grades,  high  school,  and  college.  He  was  very  keen  that 
she  accept  the  allowance.  She  incurred  no  obligations  to 
ward  him,  Evert,  by  accepting  it.  By  the  terms  of  another 
provision  she  and  the  child  became  his  legal  heirs  in  case 
of  his  death.  She  would  in  the  next  few  days  receive  a 
detailed  letter  with  regard  to  this  matter  from  his  lawyer. 
Here  followed  a  few  words  of  farewell  and  good  wishes. 
They  were  sincere,  warm,  but  not  intimate.  .  .  . 

Three  days  later,  as  they  were  starting  for  the  train, 
the  mail  man  brought  a  registered  letter.  It  was  from  Ray 
mond's  lawyer.  She  stuck  the  letter  into  her  purse  with 
out  opening  it.  ... 


She  had  planned  to  stay  over  a  day  or  two  in  Chicago. 
She  wanted  to  see  the  city  once  more  and  to  show  it  to 
the  child.  Little  Raymond  had  also  suggested  their  visiting 
Stillwell.  Since  he  had  heard  Mr.  Evert  speak  of  it,  he 
had  wished  to  see  the  place.  Hilda,  however,  told  him  that 
the  time  to  see  Stillwell  was  in  the  summer  and  the  child 
acquiesced  with  her. 

For  two  whole  days  the  journey  was  very  pleasant.  On 
the  third  they  rode  into  a  snowstorm.  A  terrific  gale  was 
sweeping  the  prairie,  howling  and  tearing  at  the  sides  of 
the  coach.  The  engine  was  groaning  and  the  train  was 
proceeding  at  a  snail-like  crawl. 

Gusts  of  wind  swept  through  the  car.    It  was  cold  and 


DEATH  295 

people  got  into  their  furs  and  overcoats.  Little  Raymond 
was  chilly  and  nestled  close  to  his  mother.  They  reached 
Chicago  eight  hours  late,  Raymond  suffering  with  a  cold. 

Hilda  dropped  all  plans  for  staying  over  in  Chicago  and 
decided  to  go  on  to  New  York  at  once.  She  had  a  wait 
of  three  hours  before  she  finally  got  on  an  East-bound  train. 
It  was  noon. 

Raymond  had  eaten  little  for  breakfast,  and  less  for 
dinner.  His  cold  was  becoming  worse.  He  was  in  pain. 
Every  time  he  coughed,  Hilda  was  lifted  out  of  her  seat  in 
alarm.  The  child  observed  his  mother's  fear  and  braced 
himself.  He  tried  to  sit  up  and  hold  his  head  erect. 
When  his  pain  eased  up  for  some  moments  he  would  even 
smile  to  her. 

Both  Hilda  and  the  child  were  glad,  however,  when  the 
porter  made  the  bed  and  little  Raymond  got  into  it.  Hilda 
did  not  close  an  eye  all  night.  In  the  morning  it  was  clear 
and  frosty.  The  sun  was  out.  The  child  insisted  on 
dressing.  Hilda,  too,  thought  he  might  feel  better  sitting 
in  the  sun  and  she  helped  him  with  his  clothes. 

For  some  hours  he  seemed  better.  Shortly  after  noon, 
however,  Raymond  lost  all  grip  of  himself.  He  lay  limp 
and  helpless  in  her  arms,  burning  away  in  a  high  fever. 
Hilda  was  counting  the  moments  for  the  train  to  pull  into 
New  York.  They  finally  arrived. 

She  carried  him  to  a  taxi  and  told  the  chauffeur  to  drive 
to  a  family  hotel  she  had  once  known  on  the  West  Side,  just 
below  Fourteenth  Street.  As  soon  as  she  got  into  her  room 
she  called  for  a  doctor.  The  physician  came  in  a  half  hour. 
He  examined  the  child  hastily. 


296  THE    ROAD 

"We  shall  have  to  take  him  to  a  hospital  at  once,"  he 
announced. 

"Is  it  serious,  doctor?"  Hilda  asked,  wild-eyed.  She 
was  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 

The  physician  gazed  at  her  pensively,  as  if  making  up 
his  mind  to  something.  He  decided  that  she  better  know 
the  whole  truth. 

"It  is  pneumonia,"  he  said,  "and  there  is  no  time  to 
lose." 

He  turned  from  Hilda  to  the  telephone,  picked  up  the  re 
ceiver,  and  called  a  number.  She  heard  him  ask  for  an 
ambulance  immediately. 

Hilda  staggered  over  to  where  little  Raymond  lay  in  a 
stupor,  went  down  on  her  knees  before  him,  and  kissed  his 
face,  his  hands  imploringly.  .  .  .  He  must  not  go.  ...  He 
must  not  leave  her.  .  .  .  Life  would  be  meaningless  with 
out  him.  .  .  .  The  light  would  go  out  of  the  world.  .  .  . 
No,  he  could  not  die.  .  .  .  Not  her  son.  .  .  .  Not  he.  ... 

Three  days  later  Raymond  was  dead.  .  ;  -. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 
A  TOAST  TO  THE  FUTURE 

THREE  weeks  later  Hilda  received  a  letter  from  Frank 
Hillstrom.  He  had  just  heard  of  the  child's  death.  In  the 
face  of  such  a  calamity,  he  wrote,  he  would  not  attempt  to 
console  her.  ...  He  had  been  in  Washington  for  some 
time  now  and  was  expecting  to  be  in  New  York  in  about 
ten  days,  when  he  would  come  to  see  her. 

He  walked  in  on  her  late  one  Saturday  afternoon. 

Hillstrom  was  in  the  uniform  of  a  Red  Cross  captain. 
Hilda  noticed  this,  but  expressed  no  surprise.  The  war  had 
been  productive  of  such  unusual  effects  upon  people  that 
nothing  in  connection  with  it  surprised  her  any  longer. 
Several  of  her  acquaintances  she  believed  to  be  ardent 
pacifists  were  in  France,  in  the  trenches,  having  volun 
teered  for  the  war.  On  the  other  hand,  a  number  of  men 
she  least  expected  to  oppose  the  war  were  either  in  prison, 
as  objectors,  or  were  in  the  shadow  of  such  a  sentence. 

Since  the  child's  death,  she  had  herself  been  thinking 
about  the  sick  and  dying  on  the  battlefields  of  Europe.  .  .  . 
She  would  have  been  happy  to  go  among  them,  to  assuage 
their  suffering,  to  lighten  the  last  moments  of  the  dying. 
...  In  her  state  of  mind  the  work  of  a  nurse  would  have 
been  consoling,  soothing.  Her  pacifist  convictions  were, 
however,  in  the  way  of  her  applying  for  war  service. 

297 


298  THE   ROAD 

Hilda's  appearance  stunned  Hillstrom.  She  had  become 
pale  and  haggard  during  the  five  weeks  that  had  elapsed 
since  the  child's  illness  and  death.  Her  eyes  looked  as  if 
she  were  about  to  cry,  or  had  just  ceased  crying.  She  had 
been  going  from  one  paroxysm  of  tears  to  another. 

They  spoke  in  snatches.  Both  were  struggling  with  their 
emotions.  .  .  . 

Twilight  had  set  in.  He  asked  her  to  go  to  dinner  with 
him.  She  dressed  and  they  went  down  together. 

They  were  walking  up  Fifth  Avenue.  Hilda  was  seeing 
the  street  again  for  the  first  time  since  America's  entry 
into  the  war  and  it  astonished  her  not  a  little.  The  street 
had  completely  lost  its  pre-war  civilian  character.  It  was 
teeming  with  men  and  women  in  uniform,  soldiers,  officers, 
nurses.  .  .  .  Hillstrom  was  constantly  being  saluted  and  he 
saluted  in  turn.  He  was  going  through  the  motions  quickly 
and  dexterously. 

They  turned  into  a  side  street  and  entered  an  Italian 
restaurant.  The  place  bore  a  martial  aspect.  It  was 
adorned  with  flags,  American  and  those  of  the  allies.  Most 
of  the  tables  were  occupied  by  officers  and  their  wives, 
or  friends. 

They  found  a  place  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  and  sat 
down.  When  they  had  finished  their  soup  Hillstrom  asked: 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  me  as  a  soldier?" 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  think,"  Hilda  replied  simply. 
"You  are  the  last  person  on  earth  I'd  look  for  in  uniform. 
I  had  rather  expected  to  hear  of  your  going  to  prison  as  a 
pacifist." 


A  TOAST   TO   THE   FUTURE      299 

Hillstrom  listened  to  her  thoughtfully.  A  sad  smile 
played  about  his  lips. 

"And  you  believe  in  going  to  prison?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  puzzled.  She  was  not  sure  she  got  the  sig 
nificance  of  his  question.  She  had  become  so  slow  mentally 
at  times,  since  little  Raymond's  death.  .  .  .  However,  she 
answered: 

"Yes — for  a  cause.    I  would  go  to  prison  for  a  cause." 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  his  smile  vanished,  "I  used  to  think 
that  way  too,  but  I  don't  any  longer.  I  am  a  firm  believer 
now  in  keeping  out  of  prison,  in  keeping  on  the  job.  The 
cause  gains  more  that  way.  .  .  ." 

He  was  silent,  flicking  the  ashes  from  his  cigar.  When 
he  spoke  again  the  expression  on  his  face  was  one  of  deadly 
earnest. 

"There  are  too  many  socialists,  too  many  radicals  and 
dissenters  from  the  present  order  in  our  prisons  already," 
he  resumed,  "far  too  many.  .  .  .  We  permit  ourselves  to 
be  decoyed  behind  prison  doors  too  lightly.  In  ancient 
Rome  when  a  tyrannical  Caesar  disliked  criticism,  he  gave 
the  hint  to  his  critics  that  they  had  lived  long  enough  and 
the  noble  Roman  gentlemen  obliged  him  by  opening  their 
veins  and  departing  from  this  earth.  .  .  .  After  a  while 
the  Romans  learned  that  it  was  much  wiser  and  healthier 
to  open  the  veins  of  their  tyrants  instead  of  their  own.  .  .  . 

"Prison  is  to-day  the  substitute  for  the  old  method  of 
opening  the  veins  of  critics.  ...  It  is  less  pagan  and  more 
Christian.  ...  I  am  for  turning  the  tables.  .  .  .  The  time 
has  come  for  the  rebels  of  this  country,  instead  of  going  to 
prison,  to  send  others  there.  .  .  ." 


300  THE   ROAD 

Hillstrom  stopped,  took  a  sip  of  water,  and  continued: 

"The  war,  whichever  way  it  ends,  will  bring  freedom  to 
the  peoples  of  Europe.  It  has  already  brought  freedom 
to  the  people  of  Russia.  But  to  us  in  America  it  is  bring 
ing  sinister  reaction.  Overnight  we  have  installed  a  mili 
tary  despotism  that  has  curtailed  our  liberties  in  a  thousand 
different  ways. 

"Of  course  our  oligarchs,  our  public  thieves  and  despoil- 
ers,  want  to  stifle  criticism.  They  want  no  independent 
mind  on  the  inside  of  their  activities.  They  want  no  honest 
man  to  see  the  desperate  game  they  are  playing  with  the 
fortunes  of  the  people,  with  the  lives  of  the  proletariat. 
They  want  to  sidetrack,  to  devitalize  the  forces  that  oppose 
them.  They  want  a  free  hand. 

"But  it  is  the  business  of  those  who  know  and  under 
stand  their  game  not  to  give  them  a  free  hand.  It  is  our 
business  not  to  be  sidetracked.  It  is  the  business  of  the 
radical,  of  the  socialist,  of  the  friend  of  the  masses  to  stay 
on  the  inside,  to  know  what  is  going  on,  to  be  witness 
to  every  betrayal  of  public  right — and  to  live  to  tell  the 
tale.  .  .  . 

"If  the  uniform  becomes  the  only  vantage  ground  from 
which  to  stand  guard  over  the  people's  interest — let  him 
put  on  a  uniform.  This  is  no  time  to  quibble  over  tape  and 
buttons.  .  .  ." 

Hilda's  eyes  stood  wide  with  admiration;  also  a  certain 
relief  was  in  them. 

"You  mean,"  she  asked,  "that  you've  not  become  con 
verted  to  war,  that  your  uniform  is — is — " 

The  tenseness  left  Hillstrom's  face.    He  smiled. 


A  TOAST   TO   THE   FUTURE      301 

"I'll  wear  this  uniform,  any  uniform,"  he  said,  "so  long 
as  it  helps  me  promote  my  cause,  the  cause  of  the  work 
ing  people.  The  capitalists,  the  militarists  have  no  scruples 
about  the  uniforms  they  put  on,  so  long  as  these  uniforms 
serve  them,  help  them  carry  out  their  plans.  .  .  .  Right 
now  they  are  cloaking  their  militarist  ambitions  in  the 
trappings  of  democracy.  They  are  masquerading  in  our 
uniforms,  painting  our  slogans  of  progress,  humanity  and 
brotherhood  over  their  bloody  designs  for  commercial  con 
quest  and  capitalist  exploitation.  Why  should  we  scruple? 
Why  not  choose  the  safest  cloak  for  our  revolutionary 
work?" 

Hilda  was  thinking  over  his  last  words  when  Hillstrom 
came  back,  speaking  barely  above  a  whisper: 

"There's  no  other  way.  .  .  .  Dark  days  have  come  upon 
the  country.  .  .  .  For  the  first  time  in  our  history  open 
discontent  has  been  made  dangerous.  .  .  .  We  are  driven 
underground  and  we  must  resort  to  underground  meth 
ods.  .  .  . 

"Listen,"  he  bent  over  close  to  her,  "they  are  sending  me 
to  France  in  two  weeks.  At  the  first  opportunity  I  shall 
have  myself  transferred  for  service  in  Russia.  .  .  .  Russia 
is  the  country  we  shall  have  to  watch,  to  learn  from  per 
haps.  .  .  .  The  social  revolution  has  already  begun  there. 
.  .  .  Moscow  will  probably  be  to  socialism  what  Rome  has 
been  to  Christianity.  .  .  ." 

Hilda  was  thrilled.  It  was  the  first  time  since  Raymond's 
death  that  she  permitted  herself  a  momentary  enthusiasm 
over  anything. 


302  THE   ROAD 

"Russia,"  she  said,  "how  I  envy  you.  I  should  like  to 
go  there  myself." 

"That,"  Hillstrom  replied,  "is  precisely  what  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  about.  I  thought" — he  hesitated  an  instant — 
"I  thought  in  your  present  misfortune — Red  Cross  work, 
helping  the  sick,  caring  for  children,  relieving  pain  and 
suffering  might  hold  forth  a  welcome  change.  ...  If  you 
should  decide  at  any  time  that  you  want  to  go  into  this 
work,  then  see  this  man — " 

He  wrote  out  the  name  and  address  of  a  colonel.  Hilda 
put  the  piece  of  paper  away  carefully. 

"Ask  to  see  him  personally,"  he  continued.  "Tell  him 
I  sent  you  and  he  will  recall  you  at  once.  I  talked  about 
you  already  and  he  promised  to  fix  things  up  for  you 
without  delay.  .  .  ." 

"If  you  go  over  to  Europe,"  Hillstrom  again  leaned  over 
close  to  her,  "try  to  get  yourself  assigned  to  Russia,  the 
nearest  point  to  it.  ...  Perhaps  we  may  meet  there.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  faint  dreaminess  in  his  voice.  .  .  . 

The  waiter  had  come  with  the  bill.  He  had  also  brought 
a  bottle  of  fresh  water.  They  were  not  serving  wine  to 
men  in  uniform.  .  .  . 

"A  good  proletarian  drink,"  Hillstrom  laughed. 

He  filled  the  glasses. 

Hilda  bent  her  head  in  deep  thought. 

The  restaurant  hummed  with  conversation.  In  spite  of 
the  fact  that  no  wine  was  served,  the  officers  were  flushed 
and  hilarious.  Their  women  companions  were  gazing  upon 
them  with  yearning,  tender  eyes,  in  which  there  lurked  a 
furtive  sadness.  .  .  .  The  band  was  playing  patriotic  airs. 


A  TOAST  TO   THE  FUTURE      303 

.  .  .  Two  tables  distant  from  Hillstrom  and  Hilda  a  com 
pany  of  officers  and  civilians  were  making  merry.  One  of 
the  men  was  telling  of  an  encounter  he  had  had  with  a 
socialist,  and  what  he  had  done  to  "that  long-haired  fel 
low."  The  entire  company  roared  with  delight. 

Hillstrom  and  Hilda  looked  at  the  merry  company  and 
exchanged  glances. 

Hillstrom  consulted  his  watch  once  more.  It  was  time 
for  him  to  go.  He  lifted  his  glass  and  waited  for  Hilda 
to  lift  hers. 

"A  toast  to  the  future!"  he  called,  gazing  deeply  into 
her  eyes. 

They  clinked  glasses.  He  drank  his  to  the  last  drop. 
Hilda  took  a  few  sips  and  put  her  glass  down.  Her  hand 
was  trembling. 


BOOK  IV 
EPILOGUE 


CHAPTER   XXIV 
IN  RUSSIA'S  FIELDS 

THREE  years  had  passed  and  the  fourth  was  under  way, 
Late  on  an  afternoon  in  August,  1921,  Hilda  was  coming 
down  one  of  the  gray,  dilapidated  streets  of  the  city  of 
Domsk  on  the  Polish-Russian  border.  Two  years  earlier 
an  army  fighting  under  allied  command  had  taken  the  White 
Russian  city,  and  it  was  now  the  farthest  outpost  of  non- 
bolshevist  Europe  to  the  east.  Beyond  it  lay  the  Soviet  Em 
pire.  Hilda  had  come  to  Domsk  with  the  first  American 
Relief  Expedition  that  entered  the  stricken  city. 

She  walked  slowly,  partly  because  the  day  was  warm, 
and  partly  in  response  to  an  inner  mood.  Her  days  in 
Domsk  were  numbered.  The  American  Relief  Mission 
was  closing  its  activities.  The  acute  suffering  and  hunger 
which  followed  in  the  wake  of  the  war  had  been  stilled. 
The  chronic  want  of  the  desolate  population,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  beyond  the  scope  of  any  relief  agency.  The 
twenty-odd  relief  workers,  including  Hilda,  were  hourly  ex 
pecting  word  from  Washington  ordering  them  back  to  the 
United  States. 

Hilda  was  gazing  at  the  mud-colored,  one-story  houses, 
and  at  the  people  with  their  ashen  faces  and  deep  patient 
eyes,  as  if  trying  to  absorb  and  store  away  in  her  mind 
a  lasting  memory  of  them.  .  .  . 

307 


3o8  THE   ROAD 

She  was  known  to  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  city — 
some  twenty-eight  thousand  souls  in  all.  Nearly  every  one 
of  them  had  passed  through  one  of  her  clinics  or  children's 
kitchens  in  the  year  and  a  half  the  Relief  Mission  had  been 
among  them.  Wide-bearded  peasants  lifted  their  hats  and 
bowed  to  the  waist  as  she  passed  their  houses.  Kerchiefed 
women  sang  out  their  good  day  and  blessing  fervently.  .  .  . 
Hilda  answered  their  greetings  not  without  sadness.  They 
had  grown  so  near  to  her,  these  simple  primitive  people. 
She  had  witnessed  so  many  of  their  sorrows.  It  was  like 
parting  from  old  friends.  .  .  . 

From  one  peasant  hut  two  little  children  came  out  and 
ran  up  to  her  beaming.  She  stopped  to  talk  to  them  in  the 
few  words  of  Russian  she  had  acquired. 

"How  are  you,  Zosia?"  she  asked  the  little  girl  whose 
straight  flaxen  hair  was  falling  loosely  about  her  shoulders. 

"I'm  well,  barynia  (lady),  quite  well  now,"  the  girl  re 
plied. 

"And  you,  Vasilka?"  she  addressed  a  barefooted  young 
ster  of  six. 

The  child  blushed  and  lowered  his  head  without  answer 
ing.  Hilda  petted  his  cheek  and  smoothed  the  girl's  hair, 
and  the  two  went  away  happy. 

She  turned  into  a  side  street.  An  old  manor  house  sur 
rounded  by  spacious  grounds  came  into  view.  An  American 
flag  was  flying  over  it.  It  was  the  home  of  the  Relief 
Mission  at  Domsk.  She  entered. 

The  place  was  in  commotion.  People  were  running  from 
room  to  room  excitedly. 

"Are  we  going  home?"  she  asked  the  first  person  she  met. 


IN   RUSSIA'S   FIELDS  309 

"No — to  Russia,"  was  the  hurried  answer. 

On  the  bulletin  board  was  part  of  the  text  of  a  telegram 
just  received  from  Washington  amplifying  this  informa 
tion. 

America,  the  message  said,  was  coming  to  the  aid  of  the 
famine  stricken  population  of  Russia.  Negotiations  were 
under  way  for  the  feeding  of  one  million  starving  children. 
The  personnel  and  equipment  of  the  Relief  Mission  at 
Domsk  was  to  be  held  in  readiness  to  proceed  to  Moscow. 

Hilda  read  the  message  over  again.  Yes,  they  were  going 
into  Russia.  She  was  going.  .  .  .  Russia.  .  .  .  Hill- 
strom.  .  .  . 

She  went  up  to  her  room,  but  did  not  stay  there  long. 
She  went  down  into  the  garden.  A  short  distance  from  the 
house  was  an  apple  orchard,  and  under  one  of  its  trees, 
well  to  the  rear,  was  a  secluded  bench  upon  which  she  had 
often  sat  alone  musing.  She  sought  that  bench  now.  .  .  . 

In  the  three  and  a  half  years  which  had  elapsed  since 
Hilda  had  left  America  for  the  war  zone  in  Europe  as  Red 
Cross  nurse  she  and  Hillstrom  had  not  seen  one  another. 
They  served  in  divergent  parts  of  France  until  the  armistice. 
With  the  signing  of  the  armistice  she  applied  for  relief  serv 
ice  in  Poland,  was  accepted  and  transferred  to  Warsaw. 
Hillstrom  had  been  ordered  into  Germany  with  the  occupa 
tion  troops. 

Six  months  later  she  heard  from  him  from  New  York. 
His  unit  had  been  demobilized  and  he  was  sent  home.  His 
hope  of  getting  into  Russia  was  frustrated. 

She  had  received  half  a  dozen  letters  at  intervals  of  two 


3io  THE   ROAD 

or  three  months  from  him  thereafter.  His  letters  were  not 
cheerful.  Things  at  home  were  in  a  chaos,  he  wrote,  were 
going  from  bad  to  worse.  The  ranks  of  the  proletariat  were 
hopelessly  divided — the  war  had  divided  them.  The  so 
cialist  and  radical  elements  were  split  a  dozen  different  ways. 
Hate  and  suspicion  had  taken  the  place  of  unity  and  con 
fidence;  comrades  were  leaping  at  each  other's  throats. 
While  the  forces  of  progress  were  engaging  in  futile  con 
flicts  among  themselves,  the  tories  and  reactionaries  were 
boldly  lifting  their  heads. 

He  was  thinking  of  Russia  more  than  ever  now,  Hill- 
strom  wrote.  He  would  like  to  go  there,  even  if  it  were 
only  to  get  away  from  the  twilight  period  at  home.  .  .  . 

He  was  writing  guardedly  for  her  sake,  for  his  own.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  telling  when  one  of  his  letters  might  fall  into 
unfriendly  hands.  The  war  was  over,  but  its  base  insti 
tutions  were  still  flourishing.  .  .  .  The  whole  world  was  still 
enmeshed  in  a  net  of  hostile  prying  into  man's  private  opin 
ions  and  affairs.  There  was  still  an  almost  world-wide  cen 
sorship  in  operation.  .  .  . 

Hilda  pored  over  each  of  Hillstrom's  letters  for  weeks, 
searching  every  line,  every  word  for  possible  meaning  and 
significance.  Then  his  letters  abruptly  ceased  coming.  She 
had  not  heard  from  him  for  more  than  a  year.  .  .  . 

It  had  been  in  accord  with  Hillstrom's  urging  that  she 
head  toward  Russia,  and  that  he  too  would  be  aiming  in 
the  same  direction,  that  Hilda  had  volunteered  first  as  a 
Red  Cross  nurse  and  later  for  relief  work  in  Eastern  Europe. 
It  was  the  work  itself,  however,  that  had  kept  her  there 


IN   RUSSIA'S   FIELDS  311 

long  after  these  plans  were  frustrated.  The  work,  her  daily 
run  of  activities,  from  the  first  absorbed  her. 

After  each  of  Hillstrom's  letters  in  particular  she  would 
turn  to  her  work  as  to  a  balm.  .  .  .  Hillstrom  was  wasting 
his  energies  at  home  and  she  could  hope  to  do  no  better 
there,  while  here — here  she  was  alleviating  suffering  day 
by  day,  hour  by  hour.  .  .  .  There  was  so  much  suffering 
about  her  and  so  much  resignation.  People  faced  the  fact 
of  death  simply  and  naturally.  .  .  .  Many  even  looked 
forward  to  it  as  to  a  relief.  Hilda  felt  as  if  the  simple 
peasants  to  whom  she  was  bringing  the  first,  rudimentary 
knowledge  about  their  bodies  were  in  turn  confiding  to  her 
much  greater  secrets  about  her  soul.  They  were  teaching 
her  how  to  live.  They  filled  her  heart  with  a  strange 
peace.  .  .  . 

As  once  in  the  dim  past  she  had  come  to  look  upon  her 
trials  and  suffering  as  part  of  the  suffering  of  a  class,  her 
class,  and  derived  great  strength  from  it,  so  she  now  came 
to  look  upon  her  grief,  her  personal  grief  for  her  dead 
son,  as  a  part  of  the  grief  of  the  world — and  it  consoled  her. 
There  were  thousands  of  mothers  sorrowing  for  the  untimely 
death  of  their  sons,  of  their  children,  all  about  her. 

As  the  Relief  Mission  proceeded  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  typhus  belt  the  corps  of  workers  was  dwindling.  There 
were  more  hardships,  greater  insecurity,  keener  loneliness. 
.  .  .  None  but  volunteers  were  wanted,  and  one  after  an 
other  the  men  and  women  with  whom  she  had  worked  side 
by  side  for  months,  for  years,  took  their  leave  and  started 
for  America.  Hilda  stayed  on.  The  wider  the  prairies 
about  her  became,  the  denser  the  forests,  the  more  primitive 


3i2  THE   ROAD 

the  villages  and  towns,  the  more  restful  she  became,  the 
greater  the  contentment  that  came  over  her.  .  .  .  She  felt 
like  a  hermit  returning  to  the  retreat  from  which  he  had 
strayed.  ...  It  was  wonderful  to  be  so  far  removed  from 
civilization.  .  .  . 

There  were  times,  especially  at  night,  as  she  gazed  out 
upon  the  unbroken  darkness  that  hung  over  the  city — un 
broken  except  for  the  stars — that  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
recovering  from  a  long  illness.  Her  past  life,  her  suffering 
in  Chicago,  New  York,  Vulcan  City,  the  horrors  of  war  in 
France  and  of  disease  in  Poland — all  appeared  to  her  as 
phantoms,  as  dreams  of  her  delirium.  .  .  .  They  could  not 
possibly  have  happened  under  these  stars.  There  could  not 
possibly  be  so  much  cruelty,  so  much  ugliness  in  the  world. 
.  .  .  Life  must  be  beautiful.  Men  must  be  brothers.  .  .  . 
They  were  brothers!  .  .  .  They  were!!  They  were!!! 

The  atmosphere  at  the  Mission  suddenly  changed.  A 
tense  secretiveness  descended  upon  the  place,  upon  the  peo 
ple  immediately  in  charge  of  the  office.  Telegrams  were  com 
ing  one  after  another  from  Washington,  from  Paris,  but 
their  contents  was  not  divulged.  The  major  in  charge,  a 
strict  military  man,  passed  people  without  seeing  them — 
or  looked  at  them  as  if  seeing  them  for  the  first  time.  Every 
one  was  in  suspense. 

After  some  days  things  cleared.  Not  all  of  the  relief 
workers  were  to  enter  Russia.  Only  a  dozen  were  called 
for;  the  rest  were  to  return  home.  The  major  with  two  of 
his  closest  associates  were  making  the  selection.  .  .  . 


IN    RUSSIA'S   FIELDS  313 

Several  men  were  quietly  making  preparations  to  go 
back  to  America.  They  knew  that  they  would  not  be 
among  those  chosen.  .  .  .  Hilda,  too,  was  preparing  herself 
in  her  mind  at  least  for  the  journey — home.  There  were  two 
other  women  workers  besides  herself.  They  were  good  mix 
ers  and  had  been  on  friendly  terms  with  the  heads,  while 
she  had  kept  to  herself — always.  They  would  no  doubt 
choose  one  of  them  and  she  would  be  sent  home.  .  .  Well, 
no  matter.  .  .  . 

Upon  returning  from  her  rounds  one  afternoon  she  found 
a  call  from  the  major  on  her  table.  She  went  down  im 
mediately.  There  were  several  people  with  him.  The  major 
nodded  casually  to  her  and  handed  her  a  slip  to  sign.  All 
those  going  into  Russia  had  to  sign  that  slip.  Hilda  signed 
the  paper  and  walked  out. 

She  was  going  into  Russia. 

The  rest  of  that  afternoon  and  evening  she  was  thinking 
of  Hillstrom,  recalling  their  last  meeting,  the  last  time 
they  were  together,  wondering,  dreaming.  .  .  . 

The  American  flag  had  been  taken  off  the  old  manor 
house  and  half  a  dozen  trucks  and  automobiles  stood  in 
front  of  it.  They  were  being  carefully  loaded  with  trunks, 
boxes,  bundles.  The  sky  overhead  was  leaden  and  the 
leaves  were  falling  from  the  trees,  yellow  autumn  leaves.  A 
shrill  wind  was  blowing. 

Several  hundred  of  the  townspeople  stood  some  distance 
from  the  house.  They  had  been  waiting  since  early  morn 
ing  to  witness  the  departure  of  the  relief  workers  and  were 


3H  THE   ROAD 

discussing  things  among  themselves  quietly.  The  Americans 
were  going.  .  .  .  Winter  was  coming.  .  .  .  Winter.  .  .  . 

A  little  before  noon  the  loading  of  the  trucks  was  fin 
ished  and  the  Americans  emerged  on  the  veranda  dressed 
and  ready  for  the  journey.  They  were  flanked  by  the  chief 
officials  of  the  city,  who  looked  both  stirred  and  solemn. 
.  .  .  The  Americans  took  their  places  in  the  automobiles 
and  every  hat  in  the  crowd  of  spectators  and  well  wishers 
came  off.  The  men  were  bowing  low.  The  women  crossed 
themselves.  A  few  wept. 

There  was  a  two  hours'  run  to  the  border.  At  two  o'clock 
the  Americans  reached  it.  Several  Soviet  officials  were 
waiting  for  them.  They  looked  young,  seemed  new  to  their 
job  and  were  not  a  little  moved  by  the  occasion.  .  .  .  Passes 
were  looked  over  politely;  nods  and  smiles  were  exchanged. 
A  soldier  pushed  back  a  wooden  gate.  The  automobiles 
passed  and  the  gate  closed  once  more. 

Hilda  was  in  Soviet  Russia. 

For  nearly  a  year  one  of  the  largest  locomotive  repair 
plants,  located  some  two  hundred  miles  south  of  Moscow, 
has  had  an  American  superintendent.  During  that  period 
the  output  of  the  factory  has  successively  doubled  and 
trebled. 

Recently  the  Soviet  government  appointed  a  committee 
of  technical  experts  to  visit  this  plant  and  to  make  a  study 
of  the  means  and  methods  whereby  the  American  superin 
tendent  achieves  such  singular  success,  with  a  view  of  apply 
ing  these  methods  elsewhere. 

The  committee  of  experts  spent  ten  days  in  the  study 


IN   RUSSIA'S   FIELDS  315 

and  investigation  of  the  plant  and  its  manager.  Its  report 
to  the  Soviet  government  is  one  of  the  briefest  official  docu 
ments  on  record  in  Russia. 

"The  phenomenal  situation  at  the  X plant,"  the  report 

says,  "is  a  purely  individual  matter.  It  is  due  entirely  to 
the  personality,  character  and  idealism  of  the  man  .at  the 
head  of  the  works. 

"The  American  superintendent  is  not  an  engineer.  He 
is  not  even  a  mechanic.  He  has  introduced  no  new  ma 
chinery  and  no  labor-saving  devices:  He  merely  works.  He 
works  ten  hours,  twelve  hours,  fifteen  hours  a  day — when 
necessary;  and  his  example  has  an  inspiring  effect  upon  the 
people  about  him.  Others  want  to  work  "with  him. 

"He  is  devoted  to  the  revolution  and  has  but  one  slogan: 
'Work  will  save  Russia.'  With  that  slogan  every  laborer  in 
the  plant  is  familiar.  He  makes  no  other  speeches. 

"He  shaves  every  morning.  The  heads  of  departments 
working  immediately  under  him,  too,  have  begun  to  shave." 

This  American  superintendent  is  Frank  Hillstrom. 

"Any  news  from  America?"  Hillstrom  asked  his  inter 
preter,  who  was  glancing  through  a  copy  of  the  latest  Rus 
sian  newspaper  to  arrive  from  Moscow. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  peasant  hut  which  had  been 
assigned  to  Hillstrom  as  his  living  quarters.  It  was  ten 
o'clock  in  the  evening  and  they  had  just  finished  their  sup 
per.  In  the  small  iron  stove  a  fire  was  going.  It  was  the 
first  week  in  October,  but  winter  had  already  set  in  and 
the  first  snow  was  upon  the  ground. 

"Here's  an  item,"  the  interpreter  called  out  after  a  dili- 


3i6  THE   ROAD 

gent  search  and  began  to  read  slowly,  giving  the  English 
version  of  the  Russian  text  before  him. 

"The  personnel  of  the  American  Relief  Mission  at 
Domsk,"  he  read,  "which  had  been  ordered  by  the  Ameri 
can  Government  to  proceed  to  Russia,  reached  Moscow 
yesterday.  There's  one  woman  in  the  party,  Mrs.  Hilda 
Thorsen." 

"Read  the  last  sentence  again,"  Hillstrom  said,  quickly 
removing  the  pipe  from  between  his  teeth. 

The  interpreter  repeated  the  sentence. 

"Anything  else  there?"  Hillstrom  asked.  His  voice  was 
casual  once  more. 

There  was  nothing  else  there. 

He  sat  silent  for  some  minutes,  then  asked  for  the  date. 
What  date  of  the  month  was  it? 

He  was  told  and  began  figuring.  It  would  be  three  weeks 
before  he  would  be  able  to  take  time  off  his  work  to  go 
to  Moscow.  If  they  only  did  not  send  Hilda  off  into  the 
provinces  before  then.  ...  He  would  see  about  it.  ...  He 
must  write.  ...  He  must  get  word  to  her.  .  .  . 

An  expression  of  joy  slowly  lit  up  his  face— joy  and 
wistfulness. 


END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


ONE  MONTH  AFTER  *F  t#I 


FEB  1    1966 


M 


LD  21A-60m-10,'65 
(F7763slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  40009 


r 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


